


Medicine

by Fangirl_Shrieks



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24498379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangirl_Shrieks/pseuds/Fangirl_Shrieks
Summary: "Race car driver had a way better salary, but you wouldn't quit whining about the dolphins." OR Percy Jackson knows he's not a hero, and he knows he's the world's okay-est friend, and he knows his intentions aren't always perfect, but he's tired of being angry. He wants to be more than the blue car in Life; he wants to be more than his parents; he wants to be somebody to Annabeth.
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Annabeth Chase/Piper McLean, Nico di Angelo & Will Solace
Comments: 7
Kudos: 52





	Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> TW for underage drug use. Originally posted on fanfiction. :D

"My daughters are falling out!" Percy screeches like a pterodactyl as a handful of pink people tumble out of his blue car onto the board, scattering across to smooth cardboard in various directions.

Thalia squints at the pink girl in the front of her white car before gingerly taking it out and dropping it in her cup of tequila. She casually stirs it with her finger.

"Thalia," Annabeth complains. "You can't just _not_ have a driver."

"It's called self-driving cars," Thalia drawls, sipping the tequila, entirely unbothered, probably because she's hammered out of her mind.

"Why did I even take the college path?" Piper grumbles as she flicks the spinner in the middle. "I'm just broke. This is stupid."

"It's not stupid," Annabeth refutes. "I got the surgeon card."

"We're all broke, anyways," Percy reminds her, eyeing his car suspiciously and drunkenly as he tries to stuff his children back into the seats upside down. Unsurprisingly, they aren't staying. "You think dolphin trainer is a good job?" He flicks his career card at Piper.

"Percy," Annabeth begins dryly, "I _told_ you it wasn't a lucrative career. Race car driver had a way better salary, but you wouldn't quit whining about the dolphins."

"That's not your car!" Piper shrieks for the thousandth time as Jason begins to move the green car. Jason frowns in confusion, staring hazily at the board. "Yours is white," she berates.

"Jesus, Jason, how much did you have?" Thalia snickers.

Jason glares up at Thalia. "Like one."

"Lightweight," Percy teases, and he and Thalia share a look of absolute understanding and mockery.

"I want to adopt Nico," Jason declares, peering at the board carefully as he lands on the baby space. "How do I do that?"

Nico scowls, sipping at his cup in the corner.

"My boyfriend's ass stays with me," says Will, firmly, moving his yellow car before Jason could play the wrong car again.

"Here," says Piper, handing Jason a blue plastic person. "Here's Nico."

"He's so cute," Jason whispers, cupping the piece gently in his hands and beginning to cry.

Nico rolls his eyes, prying Jason's cup out of his hands.

"He is, isn't he?" Will agrees, tearing up.

"Not you too," Nico groans, his face falling in his hands at the two most emotional drunks in the room.

"I love you," Will slurs, turning to Nico whose forehead rests against the wall in silent resignation and exasperation.

"Annabeth, stop winning," Percy whines as Annabeth spins a ten, swiftly moving her car forward. "Take the extreme route."

Annabeth rolls her eyes. "I'm not taking the extene—fuck," she curses as she stumbles over her words.

Percy giggles. "You're so drunk."

"I am not!"

Thalia squirms across the ground like a worm, filling her cup up to the brim again.

"Did you drink the person?" Annabeth turns to the dark-haired girl.

Thalia frowns. "Oh. Maybe I did."

"That's plastic!"

"You're a dumbass!" Piper is shouting. "He stole my child, Perc-sy!"

Percy throws his empty cup at Jason. "Kidnapp-p-per!" He pauses speculatively. "Why do they call it that? Do they nap on children?"

Piper momentarily pauses her pillow assault on Jason.

"Oh my god, they nap on children!" Jason cries harder. "They're going to be squished like… like…" he struggles to come up with a simile, "like marshmallows being squished!"

"I love marshmallows, but they're so bad for you." Will sobs. Jason hugs him hard as they cry into each other's shirts.

Annabeth plays again because no one else is taking their turn. Thalia steals two hundred grand from the bank. Jason and Will cry together, harder because of all the children being squished to death by napping adults using them as cushions. Percy is still trying to save his daughters. Thalia chugs the rest of her cup before just reaching for the bottle and drinking from that. Nico watches with thinly-veiled amusement as Piper and Annabeth argue over who owes who money. Percy hugs his daughters to his chest, a few slipping out of his fingers, trying to shield them from Jason, the napping kidnapper. Will is trying to hit on Nico, but he is drunk and crying. Annabeth will not stop winning. Piper wants to switch career. Nico tries to pry both Jason and Will off him. Percy takes shots with Thalia until Thalia finally passes out, and Jason follows soon after. Will only weeps harder because now he thinks Jason is dead. Annabeth throws a fit because no one is playing right.

And it's not perfect, but the Game of Life is never perfect, and Percy's friends are a little stupid, but so is he, and he loves them anyway.

…

Percy's first thought is that he has no idea how he got home. He's positive he's not irresponsible enough to drive in the state he'd been in, and he prays he took a cab or something.

His second thought is that he hates the clock on his wall. He eyes it with distaste, frustratedly covering his eyes with his pillow to block out the obnoxiously loud ticking. Hopefully, it will filter the ridiculously bright sunlight streaming through his window as well.

His third thought is that he never wants to get drunk again, except he also knows he says that every time he wakes with a hangover, and that never seems to work out for him because, look, Percy's nineteen, and when college is too much, and his friends invite him over for a drink or two or six and board games, he's _obviously_ going to say yes. He's not a buzzkill. (Also drunk Jason is a joy to behold, and Percy will forever cherish the video on his phone of wasted Jason proposing to his drink with a glazed donut wrapped around his index finger for the ring).

He's thankful it's a Saturday because there is no way in hell he'd make it to his classes, and he stumbles to the kitchen to pop an aspirin and down a Coca-Cola, Piper's holy grail of hangover cures. Something about the sugars boosting something, and the fizziness, and the caffeine—he doesn't know; Annabeth explained it to him once, but he was too caught up in trying _not_ to stare at her lips while she talked to really retain anything.

Here's the thing: Will is dating Nico; Piper and Jason flirt shamelessly, and if they're not already together yet, they will be soon; Thalia swore off boys like five years ago after a particularly nasty break-up, and right now she's too invested in hanging out with people and enjoying the single life to entertain the notion of girls; and Annabeth's dedicated to college.

It's not that Percy's like aro or something, but nobody really likes him, even if Thalia rolls her eyes every time he claims that and spouts something about obliviousness, and he's okay with that, _really_. He likes making cookies, and dragging Jason to trashy movies, and practicing with his swim team, and pretending to do homework, and he doesn't really care too much for a girlfriend anyways. That is, until his buddy Jason introduced him to his sort-of-girlfriend Piper's best friend Annabeth Chase in the first week of freshman year.

It's December now. It's sophomore year.

And Percy's hopelessly wrapped around Annabeth's finger, and she doesn't even know it, and it's not like he can _tell_ her. That's embarrassing, and he's a train wreck, and he'd probably trip over his feet, and he really, _really_ can't do that. It's social suicide, and she likes school, and even if she was into someone she wouldn't like him, and he's really not into breaking his heart into a million pieces. He's young, and he just wants to have fun, make his mom proud, and pretend pining is a stranger to him. (It's really not, though. Nico's seen him drunkenly talk about Annabeth, and it's _really_ bad, and Nico has the incriminating evidence on his phone, and he's so afraid Nico will use it against him. Evil resides in that boy).

So he goes through the same mundane routines. He goes to school, practice, and his friends' houses, and he forces himself not to creepily stare at her the entire time like an idiot.

The worst part is not that she's not even a stranger to him, so it's not like it's easy to hide how he's feeling all the time, and his mom used to tell him he was the worst liar she'd ever met. (When he was five, he accidentally broke a plate and blamed it on a twin brother he didn't even have). Annabeth's part of the squad which means she's his friend of a friend, an acquaintance by name, and that means she jokes with him, and she playfully shoves him and pelts him with pillows, and she smiles at him and laughs at his jokes, and what's a guy supposed to do? (Cry, probably). Being unable to disguise his feelings means Annabeth probably already knows he likes her, and she hasn't reciprocated or brought it up, and that means she doesn't like him at all. It's a punch in the gut.

Percy sips at the fizzy soda, winces, and stares out his apartment window. He finally caves and makes himself breakfast to ignore his probably dying liver.

…

"What else?" Percy yells, cupping the phone to his chest as if that can keep the pizza people from hearing him screaming like a caveman.

"Margarita!" Piper says eagerly, bouncing like a kid on Jason's bed. "Small."

"And one margarita, medium," Percy says, winking at Piper's failed scowl. Her face changes into a sweet smile, unable to really ever be mad at him. "Thanks," he adds hastily. His mom trained his manners well.

"Okay we'll be there in about fifteen minutes," says the girl over the line.

"Yeah, okay," Percy agrees, twirling the cord of his phone charger. "Love you." He quickly turns red as the girl on the other end starts laughing. "Oh, _shit_ —I mean, I'm so sorry," Percy awkwardly stammers. "Force of habit." He cringes. Why is everything he's saying making it _worse?_

She chuckles. "You usually use terms of endearment with pizza places?" she asks, giving him a hard time, and Percy's surprised. He's so accustomed to the tired drawling of delivery people that the fact this girl has a personality at all is a shock. It's not like he _blames_ them for feeling dead inside—those shifts are soul-sucking—but he's also as smart as… as a funny simile he's too lazy to come up with.

"I—um," he adds stupidly.

She snorts. "It's no problem. See you in a few." And she hangs up, leaving him flustered as Piper cackles hysterically, falling back into Jason's covers.

"Shut the fuck up," he says, his face feeling warm, and Jason begins laughing.

He grumpily eats his pizza twenty minutes later, and Piper has to put on The Little Mermaid to coax him out of his hoodie shelter, and then she pats his head so hard she accidentally smacks it.

…

Percy watches, almost holding his breath, as Piper uses a little, pink egg-shaped foam piece to spread the liquid coverage on Annabeth's face. He almost wants to protest because he doesn't want to part with the image of Annabeth he knows and loves (yes, _loves_ ), but he lets Piper do her magic, and he's fascinated with the wings she draws at the corners of Annabeth's eyes.

They're not even celebrating anything. Piper just likes throwing parties, and her dad's an ex-actor, fairly wealthy, and she likes to spoil her friends, and so they're throwing a party anyway. Percy likes to think of it as celebrating life. They don't need a holiday to make happiness out of nothing.

He's already a little tipsy—Piper's a big believer in showing _up_ to a party already somewhat buzzed, and he can't say he disagrees with the sentiment—but he knows he's definitely not drunk when the kaleidoscope-eyed girl tips the blonde's face upward, reaching for a crimson lipstick. When she pulls away, Annabeth's lips are dark and enticing, and she must be a fucking movie star because with those golden curls falling into her eyes and her cheeks flushed with blush and Piper's dazzling handiwork, he's stunned.

It's not that Annabeth's not pretty without makeup—she's drop-dead stunning on the daily, and it's really not good for Percy's heart—but it's the _effect_ it has on her. Her eyes sparkle a little, like she's shy or something, and she can't hide herself no matter how hard she tries, and it drives him a little crazy.

He's definitely not drunk because she's the spitting image of what he always imagined Hollywood in the '50s would look like: pin-up blonde hair, and smooth, tanned skin, and red lips, and dark, long lashes, and golden hoops, and yet her eyes aren't baby blue—they're steel grey, and he knows this isn't Hollywood because she would never take that kind of artificial bullshit from anyone. This isn't the part in a movie where he sweeps her off her feet, and she gazes up into his eyes all dramatically with that 'kiss me' expression on her face, and large, doe eyes, and slightly parted, tempting lips, and he says " _we'll always have Paris,"_ and she's Ingrid Bergman, and he's Rick Blaine, and she's telling him to "kiss her as if it were the last time," and this is Casablanca.

For one thing, those top hats are the biggest fashion mistake in all of history—Piper's ranted to him about it enough times—and for another thing… Percy knows he's definitely not the hero.

He'd rather self-identify as the somewhat dorky, sort of suave criminal that just slips out of everyone's grasp. He's the one who steals somebody's heart, and then he runs away and watches for years as everyone else moves past him, growing up, getting married, adopting cats and dogs and fish, having children.

And Annabeth doesn't need saving, not by any means. If anything, Percy would say she's got it together more than he does. By a lot, actually.

But he's never wanted to save anyone as much as he's wanted to save her right now, even if he thinks he might actually be the one in need of saving.

"Stop fussing—doesn't she look great, Percy?" Piper spins her around, obviously pleased with her own painting.

Percy takes a swig of cheap spirit, trying to think of a way to answer, and he just nods instead. Piper's eyebrows furrow in confusion, her mouth pulling tight in concern, but he can't find it within himself to care, not now. Because he knows that if she asks, he certainly _is_ tipsy enough to start confessing things he'll regret when he's sober and tomorrow comes, and he's not willing to risk that, so he just turns out of the room, drifting out of the doorway, out of sight and out of mind like he's always liked to be, hidden in the shadows like he loves.

Percy's never understood why everyone chases the high of being in the center of attention. When you're sitting on the sidelines, a mere passerby, you get to observe them at their best and their worst. You get to see the boys throwing up because they just can't handle what's in their cup, embarrassing themselves in front of their conquests; the girls dancing up against people they don't even know to make someone else jealous; the people throwing their hands around, singing terribly in drunken stupor just to fit in; the freshmen trying to be older than they really are; the rarities actually enjoying themselves, staying true to who they are; and… and the people who don't mean to attract attention but do anyways. You get to sit with your cup and watch a lovely, curly-haired blonde lose herself in the bass of the music, and you just watch with an involuntary smile on your face because you can't help loving every piece of her.

No—he thinks he'll find a seat and sit this one out, and he'll drink this fire like it's medicine.

…

Annabeth stumbles over to him midway through the night, her irises alight with relief and recognition.

"Percy-Percy do shots with me," she manages to say.

Percy raises an eyebrow in thinly-veiled amusement, watching her stumble. He scoots over so she can sit, and she flops onto the couch, her hair sticking to her face with sweat. Annabeth never quite gets drunk—tipsy, yes, but never drunk. She cherishes the feeling of control too much for that, and he _knows_ her, so when she walks with the grace of a newborn Bambi, he knows somebody _else_ has given her one too many drinks.

He should probably tell her she needs water, but he's not Piper, and he's not the mom friend, quite the opposite in fact, and so he just sits quietly while she talks about nothing in particular and everything all at the same time.

"Let's dance," she suggests tiredly, her smile too wide to be sober. She never smiles with her teeth, and it's slightly off-putting.

It doesn't matter, though, because he never dances with her—it tears him apart too much. He's too young, too dumb, and he makes too many mistakes, and he doesn't want to make mistakes with her because she is the _one_ thing he refuses to fuck up, so he'll sip slowly, not delving headfirst into uncharted territory, and he'll dance with the ghosts of people he used to know when he's alone.

He gently nudges the cup in her hand onto the table, and she doesn't fight him. "Who gave you that?" he teases, his tone dry.

She smiles again, her eyes bright like a kid. "Luke."

He nearly spits out the drink in his mouth, but he forces himself to down it, kind of choking and coughing like an idiot.

"Annabeth," he sighs, trying to reprimand, really, but who is he to judge? He's been far more reckless with things he shouldn't have been able to play with. "You know you aren't supposed to take drinks from strangers."

"But he's not a stranger," Annabeth rejects. "He's in my physics class."

He glances down to his empty cup wistfully and reaches for the drink she rejected at Percy's instruction, pouring it into his own and drinking it before he can think too much about it. It doesn't _look_ like Luke roofied it, and hell if he even cares at this point.

"You're in like genius level physics, though."

Annabeth giggles, and it's so unnatural that Percy cringes.

"He got put in my class by accident," she whispers like it's a secret. She leans in conspiratorially, and she smells like cheap vodka and like citrusy-sweet perfume, a heady mix, and he really wants to kiss her, but he'd never kiss her when she's drunk, and he'd never kiss her period because it's not his place. He leans away to give her space, even if she's the one who encroached on his.

"Did he?" He's never been less interested because who the fuck wants to listen to Annabeth babble about goddamn Luke, but he asks anyway, trying to pretend because look—he knows he'd be the world's worst boyfriend, but he thinks he's an okay friend at least. And Luke's probably a nice guy, and Percy's really not the jealous type, and fuck it. If she wants to hang around with Castellan, then he's happy for her.

"He did." She bounces up and down in her seat like a toddler. He eyes her warily, wondering once again how many she's had. "He was supposed to be in international affairs," she explains, "and you should've seen his face when the professor drew a trajectory plot on the first day." She laughed to herself, perhaps for much too long to be normal.

Percy, on the other hand, feels like he swallowed a frog. Every time he drinks from the drink meant for Annabeth from Luke, he feels a little sicker, like he's drowning in Luke and all his perfect, blond, charming-smile-ness. He pinches the bridge of his nose. He feels a headache coming on, and he reluctantly drops the paper cup back onto the coffee table. His only saving graces are the sparing open windows strategically distributed within the large house, sending cold December air through the heatwave of sweaty, irresponsible young adults. It cools the perspiration beading on his forehead.

"And when did he leave?" Percy asks next, rubbing his temples with his forefingers.

"Oh, he was out on the third day of class," Annabeth laughs, her eyes shiny. "But it was still funny, and he talked to me, and he was super nice."

"Great." Percy closes his eyes, trying to think straight. All he can envisage is lining up four or five Lukes against a brick wall and methodically punching every single one in his stupid face. It's a satisfying image.

"But he's in the same math hall with me, the lecture right after mine, so I still see him sometimes."

Percy nods, but he freezes when he feels her slim fingers tracing his jaw. He's holding his breath without meaning to, and her face is so close to his that if he leaned in the right way, he could kiss her. His eyes are wide with equal parts fear and temptation.

"Does your head hurt?" she slurs, her forehead crinkled with worry. She runs her fingers over his broad shoulders, and she sucks at giving a massage when she's buzzed, but her hands feel so right on his skin, and it's like lightning, flame to gasoline, and he's paralyzed, fascinated by the expressions she's making as she attempts to work knots out of him. Her hands travel up to his head, her nails scraping through his scalp, and he can only think of how it must've felt to every other person on this planet to have her touch them so lovingly, her friends, past lovers, family. He pulls away hastily, her touch burning him.

"No," he lies.

She nods, pulling away, much to his relief. She talks some more.

"Corn dogs are disgusting."

She's dangerous for his health, really. He should be locked far, far away from her where she can't hurt him by being so good, where he can drown himself in '80s records and bad movies and Camus' works—the translated French philosophy that brought Nico, Thalia, and him together when they had nothing, but they wanted to be everything, and it was just them against the world, three misfits.

"Are you sure you're okay, Perce?"

He doesn't even _know_ her, but he also totally does. He knows she likes to collect second hand books more than first editions because she's also a broke college student, but mostly because she likes to love things others have already loved, and she claims she feels closer to the book when it's with someone who already loved it, loves opening the book and seeing what page it falls to because _look, Percy, this is the page they looked at the most, just look._ And she loves 11th century Norwegian poetry which is just ridiculous, and she thinks Starbucks is the most overpriced, overhyped thing in the world (he agrees, actually), and that caused Piper and Jason to riot because Jason is a basic, white bitch, and nobody can convince Percy otherwise. He's _seen_ him drink pumpkin spice lattes for actual, genuine enjoyment, and it is the funniest thing ever.

"Pass me another cup."

Annabeth's favorite show is Planet Earth because she's a dork and has a somewhat concerning fascination for wolves chasing down elk and tearing them to shreds. (It makes him a little afraid of her. Well, more than usual). She hates grape-flavored anything because it tastes like medicine, and she hates Snickers bars because she found a worm in one once and is forever traumatized, and she hoards Bath and Body Works candles like his mom once did, and it's really weird because he's seen her sniffing the Christmas collection like five hundred times, enough that he had to Google if you can get high off of that. She doesn't tell jokes, but she smiles to herself at others' when she thinks nobody is looking, but she's quick-witted, and Percy likes to tell exaggerated stories and be an overall dumbass, but he never does when she's around because he has a nagging suspicion she'll call him out for everything he says wrong. When she sees articles with misogyny, she gets so mad her face turns a little red, and then he feels angry too even if he has no goddamn idea what's happening just because he trusts her judgement entirely.

"I'd marry vodka if I could. Or maybe Emily Dickinson. You?"

She's really petty and prideful, and she pretends she doesn't which is _so_ frustrating, and it makes him wonder if she's even worth it, or if he's just delusional and naive (which he promised he'd never be), but then she smiles at him, that shy smile he likes to think she reserves just for him, when he finds that pencil brand she really likes, or when he figures out how to make self-flipping pancake so she'll quit burning things (she's the worst cook humanity's ever seen), or when he buys her more candles for her birthday as if she doesn't already own ninety-nine percent of the store at this point.

"Jason's doing shots again. You should probably stop him."

He can't solve her real problems, and he can't know what plagues her all the time, and she won't let him in, and he won't let her in, but he's an okay friend, really, and if she'll keep smiling at him like he's fixed the whole world every time he picks apart one of her tiny issues, he'll be hers forever.

"Is Will _high?_ Why is he hanging from the staircase?"

Because he _is_ hers, even if she doesn't know it.

"Percy? You look funny. Are you sick?"

Percy's been hers since no day in particular. It's not like he just woke up on some arbitrary day and realized _hey, I'm in love with Annabeth Chase._ It's not like he _chose_ to be the poor, lovesick bastard he is today, okay? It just… happened.

"Piper forced me into these shoes. I can't even _walk_ in them."

It must've been any one of those Life board game nights, and she was winning as usual, and everyone was arguing, and she got that competitive glint in her eyes, and he just knew after some time that he was entirely and completely fucked because there is no going back with Percy Jackson. He's an all or nothing guy, even if he likes to pretend he's not, even if he takes life slowly, drinking it in like he drinks his liquor. He is so loyal it curses him, and once she accidentally, unknowingly turned him into her little bitch, there's no going back. Not for him.

"Annabeth," he interrupts her mindless tirade, his hands shaking as he draws back into himself.

She frowns in confusion. "Percy?"

He feels it on the tip of his tongue. It would be so easy to say 'I like you,' but it's also really not because he's never been so afraid till now. It dies on his palette. He knows why he's been hesitating all his life. He'll never be good enough for her. She _deserves_ Luke Castellan, a king and a queen, and he will never fit into that fairytale.

"I think I'm going to go home," he stammers. "I think you're right. I feel sick," he lies. He reaches for water to strengthen his case, cringing at how cold it is against his teeth.

Instead of her pulling away as he had expected, unprecedented relief washes over her face.

"Oh, good. I was going to ask if you could take me home too. I can't think straight," Annabeth laughs sheepishly.

"I thought you were staying here at Piper's."

"Yes," she agrees, and she pauses for too long, spacing out. "But I just want to sleep, and it's too loud and messy."

He surveys the house. Sure enough, the party's still in full swing, and music is thumping through his skull, worsening the growing headache with every song. There are abandoned cups littered everywhere and passed out people, and he gets that she doesn't want to wake up with some random girl's hair in her face.

"I can't drive," Percy reminds her. Besides, he didn't even bring his car. He knew he would be wasted, and he's definitely drunk, but Percy's the sober kind of drunk, except for the occasional emotional outburst. Most people can't even tell when he's drunk unless he tries to act like he is.

"I know." She looks at him like she trusts him entirely, and it breaks his heart because she shouldn't trust him, not like this. "But I'm not used to being drunk."

 _And you are._ It hangs in the air. Percy flinches. When you're a sober-drunk, it's easy to pretend you're sober when you're really, really not, and it grants him the liberty to do things he probably shouldn't.

"I know," Percy whispers, and the moment feels so intimate he can't bear it. "I'll get you home," he mumbles, standing up. He doesn't want to touch her, doesn't think he's allowed to, but he quickly realizes she's hardly incapable of walking in a straight line at all, so he guides her, her skin soft under his fingers. He wants to trail burning hot kisses along the inner flesh of her thigh; he wants her to be his new medicine; he wants to treat her like a gentleman; he wants to be drunk on her, not spirits; he wants to dream of how she tasted; he wants to feel dizzy from her; he wants her to persuade him into being better; he wants to feel the rush of blood coursing through his veins, intoxicating him down to his toes; he doesn't know what he wants, and he also does.

Her back is bare, exposing the delicate muscles of her shoulder blades, and he purposely avoids pressing his palm against it as he hails a cab and ushers her into the cracked-leather seats and dirty taxi floors.

Percy spits out her address without even thinking about it, ignoring the way her head naturally, comfortably drops to his shoulder for support in her fatigue, and the cabbie peels out into the loud streets of the city that never sleeps. Her breath stirs the hair on the back of his neck, and he's hyper aware of every nerve he shares with her, her lithe body, slim and pliant and soft, pressing up against him, and he sits through the torture, unable to move, unwilling to disturb her even at the cost of his own discomfort, and he doesn't allow himself the luxury of throwing his arms around her, relishing her warmth, as they wait in the crowded traffic, the moon, the stars, the night, the world passing them by.

…

"Goodnight, Percy," she bids in her apartment doorway. The strap of Piper's dress is slipping down Annabeth's shoulder, exposing her collarbone and the sweet connector between her shoulder and neck, and he wonders if she would murmur profanities if he kissed her there, and if he went even lower—down to her clavicle, and then over her chest, and then down her breastbone, and then down her stomach, teasingly avoiding her navel, and then down to where she's aching—would she scream profanities then?

He swallows thickly, chastising himself for thinking of her like he shouldn't, for wanting her like he shouldn't.

Annabeth smiles at him one last time, and he can't help but lean into her, drawn in by her every action, and she touches him, her fingers splayed lazily across his chest. He wonders if she can feel just how fast his heart is beating.

"Goodnight," he permits, the word breathless on his lips.

Her smile deepens, her cheeks flushed more from the heat of dancing and partying, and she has never looked more beautiful than she does now.

"Would you like to stay the night? It's an awfully long traffic line to your place," she offers.

"No," says Percy, honestly. She only has one bedroom like him—they are not rich like the Graces and the McLeans—and he doesn't mind couches—he's not an ungrateful asshole—but he also doesn't want to spend the night tossing and turning in sheets that smell like _her_ lemon laundry detergent, and think of _her_ sinful lips murmuring wicked things in her sleep just down the hall, and he doesn't want to think about _her_ at all, really, but that's always been impossible since he became hers.

He thinks her expression falls for just a fraction of a second, but he also thinks he maybe, probably, definitely imagined it because why wouldn't he?

"Thank you for not letting me die in the cab," she tells him, and he imperceptibly nods. "And for helping me escape Piper's rowdy place."

He shies. He would help her escape from anywhere, anytime. He is hers, remember? He says so.

"Anytime?" Her mascara-coated eyelashes flutter, and she peers at him through them.

He feels a lump in his throat. He would follow his friends into battle; helping them out from time to time is child's play.

But she's drunk, and in every single variation of his fantasies, she's never been drunk, and it's off-putting. Off-limits. She is off-limits.

"Anytime," he vows, his voice low.

"You're a good guy, Perseus Jackson," she murmurs so quietly he barely hears her, and then she pecks his cheek with her smudged lipstick, her eyes filled to the brim with a feeling he doesn't recognize, and she shuts the door.

 _No,_ he thinks to himself, his heart physically aching like someone had stabbed him. _No, I'm really not._

…

Here's the thing: if this was only about lust, Percy would've been able to solve this by now.

He doesn't mean to sound cocky because he's not, not really, but he knows he's fairly attractive. He knows he's in the big leagues because he's slept with people who he had previously thought were out of his league, but apparently they weren't. And he knows that maybe not all of them were good ideas, and some like Drew Tanaka, his friends hated, but he also knows who he's bedded are his least concerns.

But this isn't about lust. Yes, he's undeniably attracted to Annabeth Chase—he'd have to be blind not to be—but it's more than that. He wants to hold her too, kiss her good morning and goodnight and goodbye and hello; he wants it all, greedily perhaps. Selfishly. He wants her to forget her name and only be able to call his.

His cheek stings from her kiss as he stumbles into his own apartment. He thinks about her carnation pink lips when they're not coated in lipstick, and then he thinks about her lips on his skin, and he barely suppresses a shiver.

It's not the first time she's kissed him. Annabeth's not forthcoming and expressive and emotional, and he gets it because _same_ , but sometimes she gets so excited she can't help herself.

The summer before sophomore year she kissed his cheek when she landed that internship she'd been pining over, and he just happened to be nearby. And then again, back in freshman year, she'd kissed him on the lips, a good, proper kiss like middle-schoolers dreamt of, read about in wild fictional, teenage romances, and it had been for a dare.

Percy stares at his ceiling, barely aware of his surroundings, his bed soft and comforting underneath him. He strips out of his beer-stained clothes, courtesy of drunk Jason, and changes into fresh shorts before crawling back into bed, and he allows himself to remember.

He knows he's terrible for Amnabeth. Her family is dysfunctional, yes. He remembers her crying about her mother Athena divorcing her father Frederick and moving across the country when she was in middle school after getting particularly wasted freshman year. He remembers her talking about her step-mother once, and how they had despised each other at first, and he's even met her half-brothers Bobby and Matthew Chase.

But her dysfunctional is not the same as his dysfunctional, and it is why he's better with people just as fucked up as he is.

He has known Nico and Thalia since he was nine, and Nico was eight, and Thalia was ten. Now Thalia is a college dropout who believes formal education is prison (and he agrees), but she would've been a junior, and Nico is a freshie, and they are still together through thick and thin.

Percy met Jason in seventh grade. Thalia had been getting high in the girl's bathroom, and she stumbled out, uncharacteristically crying for a reason he still doesn't know today, and she just told him about her brother. That's all. He met Jason in history class the very next day, realizing it was the same Jason she had been talking about.

Zeus, their father, is rich, and Percy also knows with it comes a lot of problems. But Percy would give up his world for Thalia, and he's good friends with Jason now too, and his equally rich girlfriend Piper, and Piper's best friend Annabeth, etc, etc, but Thalia and Nico are his best friends since childhood, no matter who asks.

Percy and Nico were there when Thalia went through rehab in junior year of high school and came back in senior year, when she was scared she would become like her mother Beryl who died when she was three from alcohol poisoning, and they have kept her reason for disappearance a secret from Jason ever since. Percy and Thalia were there when Nico's mother Maria and sister Bianca died in a fire when he was ten, leaving his father Hades in a state of perpetual grief. And…

And Nico and Thalia were there when Percy's mother died in a car crash when he was nine, leaving him orphaned and thrown into foster care. A wicked system for an unfortunate life.

His mother had died with his cruel, abusive stepfather Gabe. It had been good. Gabe was a bastard, and even if he never said it out loud, Percy had always known he was physically abusive to his mom too, and it made him so angry as a kid. Gabe had taken money and gambled away, treated them like shit, used Sally's money to go back to college for his drugs, and when he died, it had been Percy's happiest day.

And saddest.

Because they had died together in that car crash. It had been snowing particularly bad in New York that evening, and Sally had left to pick him up from poker, much to Percy's disdain, and she had never come back.

Police flooded his ratty, poverty-stricken apartment and interrogated him. He never did find out if this crash was an accident, and Percy would forever believe it wasn't. It really wasn't.

Because they went over the railing that night, the police had told him. He'd had scars lining his back and arms from Gabe, some of which still remain today, and they told him it was an accident, but he knew better. He knew somehow, someway Gabe led them both to their deaths. And that was that.

Percy's real father abandoned him and his mother when he was only just a baby. He sent child-support checks up until the age of eighteen, and even in an orphanage until he reached the legal age, Percy didn't bother to find him. Why would he _want_ to subject himself to that torture? Why would he chase down a man who so purposefully left and never came back? All he knows is his name is Poseidon, and Percy has seen one photograph of him, and he doesn't care for him. Percy assumes the feeling is mutual.

Poseidon still sends him checks, asking to meet, asking to reconcile.

Percy denies them all. He even tried to turn away the checks, only for his bank to call and inform him Poseidon had directly deposited the money in his account, and there was no way he could deny it.

So he uses it. He uses his birth-father's riches to pay his tuition, and he lives a humble life even if Poseidon's checks are six figures and frankly offensive from the sheer size, like he is trying to buy Percy back, and Percy figures he is rich, but he is poor in every way that counts. He left his mother behind. He left a _son_. He didn't care until Sally died.

And so Percy doesn't care at all. He doesn't want the charity. He still works a college job and uses his own money to pay all his rent, and he lets the money sit in his bank, multiplying from the interest, living life as he didn't know his father or his money at all. Because he doesn't.

They like to call themselves the mother-less squad, Thalia, Nico, and him. Thalia once said they were the Disney squad because apparently all the mothers were dead, but Nico pointed out so long ago they were replaced with evil step-mothers, and the three of them weren't even granted the luck of step-mothers, no matter how cruel.

They… they understand each other without words. Percy let Thalia squeeze his hand even if she claimed she wasn't scared when she illegally got a tattoo at fifteen, and Nico let Percy talk him out of doing cocaine at four in the morning, and Percy let Thalia pry bottles of vodka out of his hands—never beer because it makes him feel like Gabe—before he drank himself to death, and they just all have daddy issues together, and dead mother issues, and trauma issues, and drug abuse and other abuse and neglect and emotional burdens and—

These are his friends, for better or worse. And Jason, who grew up with Zeus after the custody battle, not like Thalia with their crack-whore mother; and Piper, with her divorced parents but movie-star, famous dad; and Annabeth, with her divorced parents but loving father and step-family—they will never understand. So they don't know. And it is why, in some ways, Percy will never deserve them. They believe he is much better than he really is. Nico tries, he really does, and he is young, and so he deserves all that love. Thalia is exhausted, and she tries too, and she has had it rough, and she deserves it too.

And Percy knows he will accept Nico and Thalia's love and no one else's. He knows he doesn't deserve the same faith from the less-fucked up like Nico and Thalia do.

He is not as good of a man as Annabeth thinks or wants to believe, and he is the smooth criminal who steals hearts and tries in school, if only for his late mother, and runs away where nobody but Thalia and Nico can find him. He will let the perfect people be with perfect people. He will let Annabeth love Luke and Piper love Jason. He will let Will love Nico and Nico love Will because Nico deserves the universe despite the poor hand of cards he's been dealt.

Percy pops an aspirin before sinking into the cushions, his chest feeling colder than the weather outside. It's his heart that makes him feel this way, really.

His fingers tremble as he takes the aspirin. Thalia's overdose on painkillers in senior year of high school, only four weeks after her first rehab (more came after this incident), still haunts him.

It is dangerous to hold pills in his hands and force himself only to take one, dangerous to hold the weight of the world in his palm and have that sort of control.

Dangerous to feel emotions he'd buried deep where the sun didn't shine, where he could forget his shame and pretend he was much better than he really was.

Percy sleeps like the dead that night, and he can't help but wonder if maybe he really is dead after all.

(But death has never hurt this much. Death will never hurt like living does).

…

"Get up, asshole."

Percy's head throbs when he shoots up in his covers, squinting at the feminine, petite figure standing at the foot of his bed. Electric blue eyes lazily glance at him, dark with thick eyeliner. Thalia.

"Fuck off." He pulls the covers back over his head, squirming in the sheets like a hermit worm. He doesn't even question how she got into his apartment. Knowing Thalia, she probably copied his key when he wasn't paying attention, and he honestly doesn't care if it's just Thalia.

With one swipe of her arm, Thalia loudly opens his curtains, the sunlight streaming over his face and room. He groans. It's too bright, and too loud, and he kind of wants to murder her.

He glares at her through his face hole in the sheets, his eyes bloodshot and stinging.

She only smiles sickeningly sweet, holding up a single finger painted with black nail polish.

"What do you want?" he demands. "Especially at," he glances to the clock, his anger dying in his chest, "one in the afternoon." It's actually probably high time he woke up, but that doesn't mean he wants one of Thalia's military wakeup calls what the actual hell.

"We're going to Nico's."

Immediately, Percy's on alert. "What happened to him?"

Thalia's face screws up tight. "Nothing, you dolt," she snaps. She picks up one of his pillows nearby and hits him. Percy had never imagined pillows would hurt, but somehow Thalia manages to break him anyway.

"Hey!"

She rolls her eyes. "Baby."

"But, really," Percy insists, reaching for a shirt.

"Nico came across fresh heroin, sign me up."

He scowls darkly. "That's not even funny."

She grins like the Cheshire cat.

"And besides, you're supposed to be clean."

"Okay, _mom_."

"Shut the fuck up."

"And besides, you're the one getting drunk with a delectable blonde."

He glowers at her. "I didn't get drunk _with_ anyone," he corrected sourly. "I just took her home."

"Jesus, Perce. You're so fucking hungover." She laughs as he stumbled over the pillow she'd carelessly discarded.

"I'm not driving," he agrees.

She smirks. "I'll be in the car," she declares, and she flounces away, leaving him to sort through clean clothes by himself.

…

Percy tugs the strings of his old AHS High School hoodie until it shrinks around his face, leaving him to ball up in a pile of depression and caffeine-deprivation.

"You godsend," he blesses, taking her coffee out of her car mug holder without permission and sipping it. It tastes like crap, and it's cold. "What the fuck is this?"

"Poison," says Thalia, turning out of the street. She's a shitty driver, and Percy finds himself automatically holding onto the car door in preparation for crazy maneuvers. She has the highest car insurance he's ever seen in his entire life, and she didn't seem to give a fuck. Naturally.

"It's black." He makes a face.

"Like how I like my men."

"You're such an idiot." But he chuckles, albeit reluctantly. Thalia didn't even _like_ men, and she was just _stupid,_ and he loves her anyways. "But anyway, you're _wrong_ because you're missing creamer and sugar and anything holy."

"You'd burst into a ball of flames if you drank something holy," she snickers.

"Or if I walked into church," he piles on, and she laughs, making him feel all warm inside. He takes a sip of the coffee again even if it makes him want to throw up, his knuckles white against the inner handle. Thalia skids down the black tar, making him wince.

"Can you drive like a normal person?"

"If you're so passionate about it, why don't you drive?" she snaps, flipping off the guy behind him. Percy slides lower in his seat so the angry guy behind them can't see him.

"I prefer to run from my feelings," he flares up, sarcasm dripping from his every word, and Thalia actually cackles.

"Speaking of, you still pining like a little whiny bitch, or did you finally do something about blondey?"

He grimaces. "I'm not going to kiss her when she's drunk, Thals."

She shakes her head. Her hair has grown long enough to begin falling into her eyes. "That was just yesterday. I meant before that."

"So, what, you're the relationship guru now?" He feels mean today, and grumpy, and hell if he doesn't want to force Thalia to turn this car around so he can curl up in his bed again and assume the fetal position.

"I'm not the coward."

They drive the rest of the way in silence, a rarity for them both, but he relishes it, watching the streets whizz by as they go.

…

"Neeks." Percy nods.

"Perce." Nico eyes him warily, swinging his door open for them both to enter.

"Thals," says Thalia, mockingly.

"She's in a bitchy mood today?" Nico guesses, eyeing Thalia as she lounges on his couch, making herself at home.

"Actually, Percy's the asshole today," Thalia snickers.

"I could tell that since he walked in looking like the fucking kermit the frog meme," Nico dryly remarks, crossing his arms over his chest and slamming the door shut behind him with his foot. "Still pining?"

"You guys are the worst." Percy face-flops on the couch next to Thalia, and she pats his ass comfortingly until he kicks her hand away.

"Poor baby." She clicks her tongue. "Want me to change your diaper, hmm?"

Percy's going to get wrinkles at nineteen from how much he's scowling these days. "You don't get it," he says, his voice muffled in the cushions.

"No," Thalia concedes. "We really don't. Why don't you just _tell_ her?" Her voice is softer now, and that makes Percy super uncomfortable because he's used to tough love from her, and he knows she's capable of being sensitive and kind, and he hates it when it's at him. He squirms awkwardly.

Nico gently pulls a blanket over Percy, lolling next to him. He smells like cinnamon, and Percy can only assume Nico's already showered and ate breakfast like he actually has his life together or something.

"I need a swim," Percy admits, rolling onto his stomach and gazing at the ceiling. Swim season ended only two weeks ago, and he already misses the rush of competing, the water cutting through his fingers and arms.

"I thought Piper's doing some deep hair-conditioning routine now that you're out of the chlorine?" Nico tosses a cream soda at Percy, and he just lets it hit him, not bothering to catch it, thoroughly exhausted by life.

Percy wrinkles his nose. "Yeah, I'm not following that. It's too much work." Maybe that's why his hair is a disgrace to humanity. It's getting long too, like Thalia, falling into his eyes. He needs a haircut. "Besides, can we talk about something _other_ than my pathetic, non-existent love life?"

Nico shares a look with Thalia before she bursts out laughing. "You're funny, Percy."

He gives her a long look.

"It's not like we have anything better to talk about," Thalia explains. "You're our greatest source of amusement."

Nico smirks to himself, trying and failing to hide a smile.

"Thalia," says Percy seriously, and she drops it.

"So why are you guys here?" Nico finally asks, and Thalia's head snaps to Percy in horror.

He slowly cranes his neck to look up at her. He had been under the impression Nico _invited_ them there, and that's why Thalia had dragged him out of his house against his will, but for Nico to spill that Thalia had in fact decided to torture him all on her own? She's so dead.

Percy snaps up from the couch, and the chase begins as he throws things at her, Thalia dodging them all as she screams at Nico to save her. The pale young boy only watches with mild amusement, sipping at his cream soda, and not moving a single finger to intervene and help.

Thalia won't last long. Percy's an athlete, and now he's more awake than he's been the past week.

…

An hour later, Thalia's sprawled on the ground in defeat, buried in the pillows Percy pelted at her, and Percy's propped up against the wall, falling back into his fatigue.

Nico offers him a glass of water, and Percy gladly takes it, turning and pouring it on Thalia's head. She screams profanities under her pile, and he smiles, satisfied.

…

Percy sorts through his mail. _Junk, trash, throw away, stupid, bills, bills, trash._ He tosses the important stuff on his counter, trashing the rest without so much as a blink of the eye.

He slides his finger through the top of another blue seal, tearing open the familiar mail that plagues him every month. On the front, scrawled in loopy, beautiful writing is _Perseus._ Percy rolls his eyes. It's so pretentious, and he doesn't even go by that name. That's the name Poseidon gave him, and he only goes by Percy or Perce because that's what his mom called him, and that's the only blood family he loves.

He doesn't even know why he bothers reading them when it only hurts, but he can't help himself. His curiosity will be the death of him one of these days—he's sure of it.

_Perseus,_

_How are your studies going? I saw you did wonderfully at the last swim championship. I used to swim in high school too, you know. I can't help but wonder if your mother ever told you about that, and if that's why you chose it, or if you just knew it was in your blood._

Percy wants to spit on it, he really does. He's not his father's son, and he's not part of that toxicity. He is Sally's boy, and he always will be, and that's that. Poseidon cannot just waltz into his home again years nearly eighteen years later and pretend nothing has changed.

_You always know how to reach me._

There's a number scrawled at the bottom, the same number Percy's seen a million times, so much so that he's involuntarily memorized it. He never saves it in his phone. He saves the letter, burying it deep in his nightstand with the rest of them, and he throws away the receipt that claims Poseidon dumped even more unwanted money into his bank account.

Sometimes he wants to call him. He wants to reach out and just ask why. Why now, why then, why ever. Sometimes he wants to write back in return, a letter to a father who left so long ago he's not really a father to him. He wants to ask him if he has any regrets, if he has a new family now, if he really loved Sally, and if he did then why did he leave? He wants to ask him if he misses him, wants to ask if there's anything Percy could have done, if this was his fault.

But he never does.

He'll just let the letters stack up until he has to deal with them, and until then he'll just sink further in his grief, remembering what it's like to be lonely, and keeping the loneliness close enough not to break, but close enough to never forget.

…

"Are you free this week sometime?"

Percy cups the phone closer to his ear. She hasn't called him in so long. "Annabeth?"

"Yes." She hesitates. "So are you?"

Percy swallows hard. He tries not to hang out with her alone; it's not really his thing. "Yeah, what's up?"

"Piper told me you make the world's meanest cookies, and for a Christmas project we have to make a structure out of _food_ which is just ridiculous—" She cuts herself off from her little rant, laughing to herself. "Sorry. I just think it's stupid."

"Yeah, I can tell," he says, his throat uncomfortably tight. He feels her smile across the phone, and it makes him smile despite himself. "I'm free tomorrow afternoon if you're down."

She lets out another somewhat awkward laugh. "Um, not tomorrow. I have a date."

His heart twists. "Oh, yeah? Let me guess: Luke." He hopes he's wrong, but he also knows he's probably not.

"How'd you—oh, fuck. What'd I say at Piper's party?"

He laughs shallowly. "Yeah, you're very transparent when intoxicated. Anyway. That's great. I'm happy for you." And he _is_ , that's the thing. He wants his friends to be happy, even if that means they're not happy with him, and they're happier with somebody else.

"Thanks," says Annabeth. "What about Friday?"

"Can't. Nico's repainting his bedroom, and he's too short, so I offered to help." He glances out his window. "Saturday?"

"Extracurriculars," they both say at the same time, laughing together. It feels nice to laugh with her. He smiles to himself, and then he catches sight of his smile in the mirror as he walks around his house, climbing on various things lazily as he paces. His smile falters. It's weird to see himself happy, really.

"Sunday?" Annabeth tries. "Oh, wait. That's Christmas Eve."

"Jason has a party," Percy remembers. "Monday?"

"Too many classes," she refuses. "Tuesday?"

"I'm taking the swim team out for pancakes for Christmas." He's the captain, after all, and those are his boys. He likes spending time with them, even if it's in the off-seasons.

"Wednesday?" Exactly a week from today.

He thinks for a moment. "Yeah, that sounds fine."

"What time?"

He frowns. "I'll text you?" It depends on how his Tuesday night goes and what shenanigans Thalia's going to loop him in.

"For sure," she agrees eagerly. "Thank you." He goes to hang up, but she stops him. "And Percy?"

"Yeah?"

"You're the best," she says softly, and she hangs up, leaving him listening to silence and frozen on the cold tile of the kitchen.

…

Sometimes Percy thinks he's scared Poseidon's who he'll be. It drives him a little insane, fighting back the truth like he does. He hates to ask what it was like to leave him behind, but it plagues his every thought, and it's hard to look away. He wonders just how much of him really is Poseidon. He's a spitting image of the man, after all. The same dark hair, the same shallow dimple in the right cheek, and same sea-green eyes, only Percy's muscles are leaner, and Poseidon was more brawny in the single photograph of him Sally left him.

It doesn't matter. History likes to repeat itself. Mr. Brunner, Percy's favorite history teacher from high school, said it enough to make it true.

He really doesn't want to be like him. He does everything in his power to keep it from being that way, but you can't stop the inevitable, and it's a hopeless battle he's been losing since the day he was born.

Percy stares at his mom's contact in his phone. Sometimes he just wants to call her, and he does. Often. He listens to the same voicemail message, his mom telling him to call her back later because she's busy right now, and he just thinks that yes, she'll always be busy. She'll always be stuck away in a grave somewhere even he can't reach her.

He presses a finger to the smiling picture of her at Montauk in August, holding it up to his ear. It rings once. Twice. And then someone picks up for the first time in over ten years.

"Hello? Who is this?"

Percy doesn't recognize the gravelly voice. He can only feel his world spiraling around him, losing control. That voicemail message is lost forever, and someone _else_ has the phone number she once had, and she truly is gone, and he knows it's been ten years but he can't cope with it. Not like this.

He hastily hangs up, blinking at the contact photo in horror.

He stays like that for another hour or so.

…

Percy paces for an hour before Annabeth arrives. He spends thirty minutes after that rearranging the room-temperature butter and eggs, trying to see which way looks the most presentable. He spends forty minutes after that cramming everything in his room into various locations, most notably the letters from his father. He crushes them in the back of his closet, and he throws half his clothes in the laundry machine and shuts the lid without even sorting through them.

He buzzes her up thirty minutes after that. At this point, all and any efforts to appear somewhat decent have flown out the window because he _cannot_ stop running his hands through his hair and chewing on the inside of his cheek until the point that he's bleeding.

He knows he's probably overreacting, but it's _Annabeth_ , and her apartment is probably pristine and classy, and he's a fucking mess half the time, so how can he expect his space to reflect any differently? Chaotic mind, chaotic home.

Also, he's _terrified._

He doesn't want to mess this up, doesn't want to accidentally burn her with the oven so he has like five hundred mitts lined up by size, but that looks fucking stupid, and he just hates everything about this situation, and he half-regrets agreeing to do this.

He half wants to down a shot of whiskey before she shows up just to steel his nerves, but he doesn't want to be fucked up around her because she doesn't deserve that, and he really needs to quit turning to liquor to solve his problems, or he'll land up where Thalia was so many years ago, and that's just not the kind of guy he is. He doesn't gamble, and he doesn't get involved in violent activities if he can avoid it, and he doesn't drink to calm himself. He doesn't want to be that person. He doesn't want to be Gabe.

There's a sharp knock at the door, and he smooths down his unruly hair in vain one last time, inhaling sharply, and then he opens the door.

"Percy," Annabeth greets, a half-smile flitting across his lips. She's taking off her winter mittens and wrapping her ear muffs around them to keep from losing either one.

He turns on the charm, falling back on what he knows in such an awkward, uncomfortable scenario. An easy smile pulls across his face, the type that sends girls weak at the knees, the type that gets his friends out of trouble when he needs it to.

"Annabeth." He tries not to cringe at the over-enthusiasm in his voice. "How was your Christmas?"

She rolls her eyes, but she smiles, stepping into his apartment. He shuts the door behind him, and he usually locks it the moment his friends enter, or the moment he comes home, just because he doesn't want to forget, but they're standing in the entryway, and it feels creepy to lock it, like he's locking her _in_ here. And that's totally irrational, but he can't help but overthink his every action, so he leaves it unlocked, suppressing the anxiety that causes him. Everything is calculated for him. The way he keeps an inch between him and Annabeth, the way he holds himself, the way he slouches over the kitchen counter as she hangs up her coat in the closet, meticulously tucking her winter accessories into the jacket sleeves.

They get straight to it. Percy makes the executive decision to make cake and not cookies because they're more structurally sound, and you can carve shapes and buildings out of it. Annabeth goes along with his every word, claiming she's way out of her comfort zone, and it makes him a little uneasy. She's the type of girl to know everything about anything, and her implicit trust in him makes him feel a little small, a little scrutinized.

He doesn't need a recipe to bake, not anymore, not after delivering bucketloads of stress cookies and brownies and muffins to his friends until Piper kindly asked him to stop because he was ruining her complexion with all the sugar.

For the most part, Percy doesn't need help. He's done this a thousand times, enough that he could probably be a baker if he wanted to. But Annabeth feels guilty as she watches him do all the work, so he lets her do the easy things because _Percy, I swear to god I_ will _get shells in there; if you want something edible, that's probably not a good idea._ She sifts flour, and she's doing well until she isn't.

An explosion of flour erupts in her face, powdering her face like a Victorian era woman, and he can't help himself. Her eyes are wide, surprised, the flour bag still in her hand, frozen in shock.

He smiles without meaning to which is unusual in and of itself; usually only Thalia or Nico can startle laughter out of him. He had known Annabeth was bravel the first time he'd met her—getting into some jerk's face, unarmed and unprepared with little more than her wit, took the kind of guts he didn't associate with most people—but the fact that she made him laugh still surprised him.

"Let me help you," says Percy, helping her to the sink without flour spilling everywhere. She dusts herself off in the sink while he starts the sink.

She smiles at him and makes a joke about being absolutely useless in the kitchen, but he senses she is touched. A strand of golden hair falls across her eyes; Percy fights the urge to reach out and push it back.

"This reminds of that one scene in Camp Rock," she says as she washes off her arms. "You know, where Mitchie coats herself in flour so nobody recognizes she's working in a kitchen like a poor girl."

He doesn't know at all, actually. Camp Rock and Disney really weren't _huge_ parts of his childhood. Sally only had The Little Mermaid on VHS and Sleeping Beauty, and that's it for kiddie shows.

Annabeth is smiling, in that way she does when she says things that are totally inexplicable to him, as if she is fondly remembering. It sends a jealous twinge sparking through his veins, though he isn't even sure what he is jealous of. Luke, who understands her references to a world Percy can never be a part of? The world itself she can always return to, leaving him and his universe of demons and scars and memories gratefully behind?

He clears his throat. "She coated herself?"

She nods, and her hair falls back into place. "Obviously, mine was not purposeful, though," she makes fun of herself. She draws the sleeve of her shirt to the side, revealing even more flour. "See?"

And he sees: there is a thin dusting of flour, but he sees more than that: the sees the curve of her collarbone, the light dusting of freckles on her skin like a dusting of gold, the downy curve of her shoulder, the pulse at the base of her throat. He sees the shape of her mouth, her lips slightly parted. Her nearly-white lashes as she lowers them. And he is swept through with a wave of desire, a kind he has never experienced before. He's desired girls before, certainly, and satisfied that desire: he had always thought of it as hunger, a need for a sort of fuel that the body wanted.

He has never felt desire like this, a clean fire that burned away thought, that made his hands—not tremble, exactly, but thrum with nervous energy. He tears his eyes away from her, hastily. "We should probably pour the batter.

She looks at him, curiously, and he cannot help the feeling that those grey eyes can see through him. "Have you and Thalia ever dated?"

His heart is still pounding. He doesn't quite understand the question. "Thalia?" he echoes. _Thalia? What did Thalia have to do with anything?_

"Luke was wondering," she says, and he hates the way she says Luke's name. He has never felt anything like this before, anything that unnerved him like she does. He remembers running into her and Luke in that coffee shop a week ago for breakfast with Jason and Piper and Silena, Piper's half-sister, the way he had wanted to draw her outside, away from the light-haired boy she was always with, into his world of shadows. He had felt even then that she belonged where he did, not to the artificial, sunny world where people weren't real, where they passed just beyond his vision like puppets on a stage. But this girl, with her steely eyes that pinned him like a butterfly, she was real. Like a voice heard in a dream, that you know comes from the waking world, she was real, piercing the distance he has set so carefully about himself like armor.

"No," he finally says when the shock passes over him. He unfreezes, pouring the blued batter into the lined sheets before popping them into the oven. His palms are warm against the cold counters. "Thalia's like a cousin to me. A best friend. It would be odd to date her."

"Oh," says Annabeth. He can't quite read her tone, and it infuriates him. He's mastered the art of reading people, and it fails him with the one girl whose brain he would _pay_ to see a slice of. Annabeth tended to drift to a world he didn't know, and he would give anything to know what she thought about when she lost herself in her own mind.

She procures a blueprint for him out of her bag, flattening it with various pieces of fruit, before explaining. He can barely concentrate, focusing solely on the airy timbre of her voice, the way her tone warms at the core of her plan, colder and shaky at the parts she's unsure of. The scent of baking vanilla cake fills the air, and it really does feel like it's the season for joy and celebrating and holidays when he's with her. She makes him feel… she makes him feel like he's not so messed up, and it's the greatest revelation he's had in months.

…

"This is really cool, actually." Annabeth steps back to admire their handiwork.

Percy's rolled and draped colored fondant in the places she wants, and she's etching brick print into the fondant with the blunt end of a toothpick. It's like a medieval castle, and it's fascinating that it's not tipping over _at all_ because of Annabeth's science and math and whatever other magic goes on in her head.

He smiles idly, admiring the way her eyes crinkled at the corners. Decorating cakes was relaxing, but watching Annabeth dance around his kitchen was far more alluring. She had put on the Spice Girls—he had never pegged her for a '90s music kind of girl, and it was charming, really—and was sliding across his tile in socks, the butt of a fork in her mouth for extra detailing, humming the music under her breath.

He makes himself comfy at the barstool near the kitchen counter, resting his cheek on his fist and just treasuring the way she acted when she was zoned out, not really aware of his burning gaze on her.

For a girl with a smart mouth—not unlike him—and cold indifference, she is surprisingly lighthearted, Percy discovers. He wants to photograph this moment, not just her but the _feeling_. He wants to remember the skip in her step and the way she purses her lips in concentration as she eyes the frosting like it's a puzzle. He wants to memorize the way she laughs at her own jokes, hardly able to get them out, so overtaken by a fit of laughter. He wants to trace the curve of her lips, her rosy cheeks, her delicate ears. And he knows he can't. He knows she likes Luke, and she went on a second date with her—Piper's a blabbermouth, and she's living her best life, and sometimes that just means he's not a part of it.

She photographs their creation from multiple angles, soaking in all its glory.

"I suppose we should eat it," says Annabeth, snapping him out of his reverie.

"Hmm?"

"Eat it," she reminds him. "It is cake, after all."

"Fondant is disgusting, though."

"So pick it off."

"Touché."

She cuts them two fat slices, pointing her fork at him. "Piper was right. You should sell this, you know." Her eyes gleam, ever the entrepreneur. "It's addictive."

He hates how innocent she looks, her lips enveloping the fork in her mouth. He quickly averts his gaze, prying off more fondant before savoring each and every sweet bite. "Maybe I will," he says noncommittally, and when she leaves four or five hours later, he can honestly say he feels fuller in the heart than he did before she arrived.

…

There's glitter everywhere, a tell-tale sign of New Year's Eve, and the music thrums through Percy like it's just another piece of him, an extension of his body.

"Hey, Percy! Perce," a familiar female voice calls from the other end of the kitchen.

He glances up to see Annabeth smiling at him. She looks like a disco ball, glittery and reflective sequins adorning her narrow figure, and he forces a smile in return after seeing who she's standing next to.

"Annabeth," he allows, his gaze flickering to the taller blond next to her. "Luke." His name feels like poison on his tongue. Luke must feel it too because he puts his hand on the wall right near Annabeth's face, leaning into her as if to claim her for his own. Percy swallows down the bile. Annabeth doesn't _belong_ to Luke. She doesn't belong to anyone. He's disgusted.

"Percy," says Luke, his voice strained. Annabeth glances at him in concern, half-frowning, hearing it just as well as Percy does. He sees her mouth 'are you okay,' and Luke nods stiffly.

Percy finds interest in his glass of water—his way of forcing himself to drink slower. "Well, it was nice running into you—"

"No, wait!" Annabeth stops him, ducking under Luke's possessive arm without another thought. Luke looks vaguely pissed off at her nonchalance, but she's oblivious, her eyes trained only on Percy. "I wanted to tell you that I got an A on the food project." She smiles shyly, enigmatically, her cheeks pink whether from makeup or emotion, he can't tell.

He reaches out, his knuckles running down her cheek on its own. Percy pulls away quickly in horror when he realizes he just caressed her face without thinking about it, with no ulterior motive, with no thought process. It's a shock. He's so controlled, so calculated, and she leaves him without his weapons and barriers. She leaves him vulnerable.

"Sorry, you had—there was some glitter on your face, probably from someone's clothes or the decorations," he says hastily.

She flushes slightly. "Thanks."

He wonders if she can feel the tension too. Luke saunders up next to her, his hand nearly crushing the cup in his hand, and Percy knows that Luke is exactly the type of possessive bastard he hates. His piercing blue eyes are unblinking in focused eye contact, and he reaches out to shake Percy's hand, his handshake firm and hard and domineering.

Percy resists the urge to insult him, not wanting to upset Annabeth.

"Thanks for helping her out," Luke says politely, _kindly_. But his eyes say otherwise, and Percy's ability to read people has never been wrong. Not once in nineteen years. And certainly not now.

"Well, nobody else had the proper skills or tools," he says, and he knows it's petty, and he's usually not a petty guy, but Luke brings out the worst in him, making him itch with every passing moment. Percy allows a slight, close-lipped smile, a _smug_ smile, and he revels in the way Luke's eyes narrow automatically, his expression souring, because _yes,_ Percy is totally twice the man he'll ever be, and Luke's just a dick with artificial emotions and a crumbling facade. And that doesn't mean Percy's better for Annabeth, and this isn't a pissing contest to earn her favor, but Percy won't hesitate to put this guy in his place, anytime, any place, regardless of if he's affiliated with enticing girl next to him or not.

Annabeth frowns at Luke, and Percy feels the triumph of knowing that yes, Luke is totally showing his true colors, and yes, she might finally realize he's a major asshole, and she should steer clear of him. He's not a king. He doesn't deserve Annabeth. Nobody deserves her.

"I guess I'll see you around," he says, addressing only Annabeth. If he sees Luke again, he won't be responsible for decking him across his stupid, fake face.

She smiles wanly, obviously uncomfortable with the tension between Luke and him. "For sure. Game night at Jason's next weekend?"

"I'm always down for Life." He shoots her his most charming smile because yes, he wants to rub it into Luke, and not sparing the guy another glance, he stalks away, his head held high.

If he's the smooth criminal, the antagonist, he might as well carry it with pride.

…

Life is the staple for them, as it should be. When they're happy, they play Life; when they're down, they play Life.

They play Life, and they pretend real life isn't much more complicated and heartbreaking than a board game, and they try to feel young again. Because real life is like playing a game with rules you don't know. They're all in the same game, on different levels, with different demons, dealing with the same hell, and it's pure torture.

So they'll play Life. Percy will complain about his falling daughters; Piper will want to switch in the middle of the game to whatever she doesn't have; Annabeth will grow frustrated with everyone's lack of caring, and she'll be in the lead; Jason will try to play the wrong cars; Thalia will play by rules she's made up on the spot; Will will take the safest route possible, glancing to Nico every step of the way; and Nico will watch in indifferent silence, a spectator as they fuck up in every possible way imaginable.

And there is triumph and loss. There is betrayal and laughter and pain. And they are comforted by the knowledge that it is all fake, that they will wake up the next morning, and they will still have their apartments, and their school, and their friends, and their family, and nothing will ever change.

But the older Percy gets, the more he sees, the more he realizes it's not always going to be like this, and you _can't_ just play it safe and stray from the extreme paths, and you can't only live off the high and the adrenaline of taking gambles with every flick of the spinner.

The older he gets, the more he wants to bury himself in the Game of Life and pretend he's never going to grow up. The older he gets, the more he clings to a childhood he never really had, not entirely. The older he gets, the more he understands that his parents aren't perfect people, and the more he understands why people fight like they do, why they cry when they're angry. The more he realizes just how little time he has left because that's what this feels like. It feels like his world is strangling him, an arbitrary clock counting down, and he feels like he's twice his age, already tired, already done with this life, and he feels like he's running out of time, or just running. Only ever running. From everything. And nothing. All at the same time.

"Your turn."

Piper flicks his forehead, and Jason politely taps his shoulder, and he spins quickly before anyone can get a good look into his soul, before anyone can ask him questions he doesn't know the answers to.

…

"I just hate him, you know?" Annabeth seethes, aggressively throwing a shirt into a hamper. Percy just follows her around her apartment as she rants. Ever since the New Year's party, something changed in between them, like a lightswitch. They were off for so long, and now they're on, brighter than ever.

She calls him to hang out sometimes, or he calls her, and Thalia teases him relentlessly, and he's pretty sure she has a bet with Nico, but he's excited. It's nice to be friends with Annabeth, really friends—not just friends of a friend, or acquaintances, or whatever the hell they were.

"He's such a dick to Jason every time he meets him."

That's another thing Percy's learned. Annabeth swears. A lot. (He can't be more delighted because _yes,_ that means he can finally not filter himself around her).

"And he's always complaining about my 'guy friends'?" Annabeth sassily makes air quotes, blowing air out of her angrily flushed cheeks. "He's super insecure and clingy, and it's _disgusting_."

Percy nods, politely sipping from the lemonade she made him. He doesn't point out that it's early February, and lemonade and winter aren't usually thought of as going together, because she's angry, and more excitingly she's angry at a guy Percy already hates with every fiber of his being, and this is new. He watches her vent, letting off steam.

"Like I'm sorry you have a fragile masculinity, but I can be friends with a guy and not want his dick in me!" Annabeth smashes her pointer finger into the buttons of the washing machine, punching in cold water and delicates.

Percy can't help but crack a smile at that.

"Are you laughing at me?" she demands, putting her hands on her hips, but even she's running out of fury, unable to be angry when he's the exact opposite.

"No, ma'am," he says tartly, and she shoves him back as he laughs.

She sobers again, her face pinched seriously. "But really, Percy, what am I going to do? He's driving me insane."

Percy shrugs one shoulder. He hates giving advice about Luke—he reserves that sort of thing for Piper—because all of his opinions make him feel guilty, like he wants her to break up because he'd rather have her to himself. And he's an okay friend. And he would never do that. He tries to separate his feelings for her and for Luke with his rational, candid opinion. He thinks that even if this was a guy Percy liked, and even if he didn't love Annabeth as much as he did, he thinks he would still tell her he's no good for her, and so he says so.

"Why don't you just break up with him?" Percy suggests, and the mild twinge of guilt stabs him in the gut. He ignores it. "If he's such a jackass, and you hate his guts, and he just drives you up the walls and makes it hard for you to concentrate on your own life, then just end the sucker."

She cracks a reluctant smile at his humorous language. "End the sucker?" she echoes.

Percy sips obnoxiously, making her smile wider. He fights a smile of his own. "Off with his head," Percy confirms.

She grins. "You're so stupid."

"Thanks. I try."

"But… I don't know. Every time I consider breaking up with him, which, believe me, I imagine a lot, it just seems very dramatic and time-consuming and energy-sucking, and I just don't know if I have the heart to do it."

Percy shrugs again. "I don't know. It's not like you guys are married or have kids to deal with in the divorce. You're just dating, not even that seriously, and that's just what I'd do."

"You don't have a girlfriend, though. In fact, I don't think I've _ever_ seen you with a girlfriend."

Percy shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, nobody really stands apart to me." _Except you._

"Are you gay?" She tilts her head to one side, eyeing him curiously.

He feels his face warm up at her unashamed inquisition. "No, Annabeth," he sighs, "I'm not gay." _I'm really, really not gay._ He looks away from her.

"Oh. So you're the sleep around type?"

His face darkens, and he covers his face with his hands, embarrassed and awkward. He's used to her blatant honesty at this point, but that doesn't mean it doesn't catch him off guard from time to time.

"Yes," he truthfully concedes, his ears hot. "Can we please not talk about this?"

Annabeth laughs incredulously. "Well, if you're so ashamed of it, you damn well shouldn't do it."

She just doesn't get it, and he shoots her a withering glare, forcing her to drop the subject.

"Okay." She hesitates, probably thinking back to Luke and the original point of conversation. "I'll think about it. Piper told me to break it off too."

He lets out a sigh of relief he didn't know he was holding in. So he's not an asshole. It really _is_ good advice, and his subconscious isn't just being a green-eyed monster. He opens his mouth to say something, make a joke, when his phone rings unexpectedly, blasting the default ringtone through the air.

Percy blinks at the screen in confusion, illuminated with Thalia's face, before hurriedly scrambling to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Percy." Thalia's voice is raspy, like she's been crying.

He turns away from Annabeth on instinct, cupping his other ear with his hand, even though he can hear Thalia perfectly fine. He supposes it's his involuntary way of blocking out the rest of the world when his best friends need him. He glances away from Annabeth's quizzical expression, laced with concern, unable to bear it.

"What's going on?" He hears his voice tremble, and he hates it, hates whatever's going to come out Thalia's mouth next because he knows it can't be good. None of this is good, and sipping lemonade while listening to Annabeth's tirade isn't going to change that.

"It's Nico."

And just like that, his heart plummets low into his stomach.

"What do you mean? I thought he was good. He's supposed to be good! He's supposed to be flourishing!" He feels himself losing control of the situation, and he can't think.

"I don't know," Thalia whispers, and he knows she's crying, either from Nico's state or from Percy's growing frustration. "But I just stopped by, and he's passed out, and he's not waking up. I don't… I don't know what to do. There's no evidence of anything around here. I don't know what he took, or what he did. It feels like… like how it did a couple years back. I thought it was getting better, but if he's blacked out again, it can't be. Should I call 911? Percy, help me."

She's begging—Thalia never pleads. Percy curses.

"Where are you?" he demands, reaching for his keys. Annabeth takes a step toward him, but he flinches back, ignoring the hurt that crosses over her face immediately. His friends need him right now.

"His place. Hurry, Percy."

"I'm on my way. Keep checking his pulse." He doesn't hang up, knowing being alone will only freak Thalia out more. "I have to go," Percy declares, barely feeling his coat under his numbing fingers as he reaches for Annabeth's door.

"Whose pulse?" Annabeth drifts after him as he steps out the door, but she must see the torture on his face because she doesn't press further. "Call me when it's all figured out. Let me know you're okay."

He barely nods, practically running out the door.

…

Nico is shaky but awake when Percy finally bursts through the door twenty minutes later. Thalia's face is dry of tears, but her eyes are puffy.

Percy practically crushes the younger boy in a hug, and Nico, startled, reciprocates after a minute of shock.

"What the hell happened?" Percy demands, scanning Nico's face for injuries. His nose is bloody, probably from hitting something when he fell and blacked out, but Thalia is mopping up the blood with paper towels, and other than that he seems relatively unscathed.

"He didn't take anything," says Thalia, her voice quiet.

Nico shrugs stiffly. "I don't… I don't know. I don't remember. I just got these butterflies in my stomach, and I got really dizzy, and I passed out."

"What did you do before that?"

Nico struggles to remember. "I have no idea."

Percy shares a worried glance with Thalia. She's pale too. Percy lets go of Nico's arms—he probably bruised his biceps from how tightly he was gripping him—and he reaches for Thalia, helping her to her feet. She sniffles pathetically, shrugging half-heartedly, and Percy takes one look at her before crushing her in a hug.

"I thought he was dead," Thalia whispers gruffly, "he was ice cold," and Percy only squeezes her tighter, enclosing her small frame with his body warmth. "He looked like Mom."

Thalia almost _never_ calls Beryl her mother, says she's just a crack-whore, and she doesn't deserve a title, and Percy _gets_ it. He refers to his father by his given name, and it only reflects how badly Thalia's shaken. And Percy doesn't get the fear of dead people. He never saw his mother or step-father when they died, not like Nico who watched his family go up in flames, or, worst of all, Thalia who only realized her mother was dead on the ground, not just passed out, when she reached for a pulse and felt nothing.

She slumps against him for support, and he helps her onto the couch, getting both Nico and her water. At least Nico can't recall anything. It's almost worse, Percy has learned through the years, to remember.

He forgets to call Annabeth.

…

They're called psychogenic blackouts, Percy learns when Thalia drags Nico to the doctor's office nearly a week later despite his protests because _no, Thalia, I hate the hospital._ She has no sympathy for his complaints. It's the third time he's blacked out in the past week, and she will drag him, screaming or otherwise, into an office until he's fixed.

Psychogenic blackouts look like reflex syncopes or epileptic seizures, but they're related to neither. They're difficult to diagnose, but they happen mostly in young adults from stress or anxiety, but the link is not always obvious. It's an involuntary reaction to pressure or distress, and they develop after people have experienced trauma, and they are sometimes a reaction to a horrific experience in the past a patient has not yet come to terms with.

The doctor thinks it might be a PTSD symptom from Nico's childhood.

There's not much research about them yet, but the doctor kindly explains that the brain shuts down, becoming overloaded, when faced with a threatening feeling, situation, thought, or memory. Even though stress plays an important piece in these attacks, people can pass out at moments when they do not feel particularly stressed. These traumatic experiences may be recent or in the past. Sometimes it's not clear why attacks have begun just as some life stress was getting better.

Percy's never paid more attention to something in his entire life. Usually the details of school go through one ear and out the other, but he absorbs it all like a sponge. This is important to him. This is different, this is _so_ different.

Percy comes back from a regular checkup for Nico a few weeks later, and when he sees his father's monthly letter in the mail, he actually trashes it this time.

(But he picks it out the very next day).

…

"How are you?"

Percy sits across from Annabeth in her apartment four weeks later, politely sipping at the coffee she prepared for them both. She's recently wiped down the counters, and the whole apartment smells of the cleaner-lemon scent. It's maybe been two months since he's seen her, but she looks the same as she always does, if not a little concerned this time.

He's surprised his feelings for her haven't diminished at all. In fact, he's horrified when he realizes they've multiplied tenfold.

"I'm okay," he promises, smiling warmly at her, feeling fake the entire time.

"Percy. There are bags under your eyes."

He sighs. Since when did she get to understand him so well? "I'm just tired."

"You must be tired an awful lot. You look like hell." She refills him another cup of coffee, and he doesn't complain.

"Thanks."

She doesn't smile at his weak joke. "How's Nico doing? I haven't seen him in a while, and every time I run across Will, he looks just as hellish as you do."

"He's… okay. They've given him some meds to help stop the blackouts, but that doesn't mean he doesn't pass out from time to time."

Annabeth shoots him a sympathetic expression. "Tell me about it."

She's easy to talk to: understanding, quiet, never interrupting, bobbing her head to let him know she's listening. _She cares_ , he realizes, and it's like looking at her through fresh lenses.

"I'm always so scared he's going to injure himself when he passes out. Thalia wants to wrap him up in bubble wrap and padding, but he's going to sweat and be uncomfortable, and I don't want to put him through that. He hit his head the other day, and he can't sleep, and sometimes I'll just be cooking, and he'll freak out because of the flame on the stove. It's hell." He pauses. "And I just want to help him, you know? But there's nothing I can do. Only time will tell."

Annabeth purses her lips. She doesn't say _he'll be okay_ , or _you worry too much_ , or _have a little faith_. She doesn't fill his head with bullshit.

"You're doing what you can," says Annabeth instead. "You're a good friend."

She reassures _him_. She doesn't pretend she understands Nico's situation. She doesn't pretend she knows how it feels to worry constantly, consistently. She's not as close with Nico. She's not fake. She takes the news for what it is—a depressing pile of bullshit and patheticness and unfairness because Nico doesn't deserve this—and she tells him he's doing his best, and it helps, it really does. She worries about his health because Percy forgets to take care of himself, and she doesn't judge him when he randomly tears up—he can't bear to cry when Nico's around; it would only make Nico feel terrible. She only offers him tissues, and she's silent.

He's more vulnerable than he's been since he was twelve, and it's scary, but she gets it. She tells him stories of stupid things to make the time pass by. She walks with him to his classes, drops him off at work when he's too fatigued to deal with the subways or drive. She stops by his apartment sometimes, announced because she knows he hates surprises, and she'll just sit with him. They don't say anything, but she gives comfort without talking, and it's his only saving grace. _She's_ his only saving grace.

Percy refuses to be a burden on Thalia who's also extremely stressed. (Thalia stopped drinking when Nico's episodes began. They have nothing to do with alcohol, but he figures she's just afraid of everything at this point). Annabeth is a good outlet. Percy likes to stray from good people because he doesn't want to hurt them, but Annabeth doesn't blink when he snaps in his frustration, even at her, and she doesn't fire back. She just sits patiently, waiting for him to calm again, and she holds him while he copes with Nico's medical issues and trauma.

Percy finds himself afraid around the stove too after some time, a side-effect of being overly empathetic. Annabeth reminds him he's not afraid, he's just stressed, and she grounds him.

She tells him how she humorously broke it off with Luke—she dumped a smoothie on his head, reaching her final straw—and she makes him smile, a rare feat to accomplish. She supports him as Nico improves.

She comes across the letters from Poseidon, and she doesn't ask, only offers to help him organize them by date and file them better. She doesn't peek at the words. She's not nosy or intrusive. She gives him space.

She's a saint, an archangel.

And he's the devil in disguise.

…

"Hold still. You don't want me to hack your hair off."

Percy stills, Annabeth circling around him, barber scissors in her hands. He's not even surprised at this point that she knows how to cut hair. The real question is what she _can't_ do.

"Maybe I do," he mumbles petulantly, and she smacks him with the butt of the scissors.

"You look like you're an anime boy—your hair's so long," she comments. He watches locks of dark hair fall over the towel wrapped around his shoulders, drifting to the cold bathroom floor.

"Does this mean I have millions of fans?"

She tilts his chin up with her index finger, and he feels like he can't breathe every time she touches him.

"Well, I don't know about millions." She makes an adorable face of concentration, Percy's learned, when she's focused on a task. He subtly peeks at her through the mirror. "But maybe a dozen or so."

Percy rolls his eyes. "I sincerely doubt it."

She smothers a smile. "Percy, have you seen the way people always eye you on public transport? I think I even saw a girl sneakily take a picture of you when you weren't paying attention. At least she was smart enough to have her flash off."

Percy cringes. "That's creepy."

Annabeth laughs. "I never said it wasn't." Her fingers are soothing in his hair. "I'm just pointing out that you may have more suitors than you think."

"What about you?" Percy asks without thinking. His heart beats quickly in his chest.

"What about me?" she teases, snipping some more. He flinches sometimes when the scissors are too loud, and she almost pulls away, but he shakes his head, allowing her to trim some more. Annabeth would never hurt him. She's not Gabe, not ever. And physical contact makes him uncomfortable, but… but she's okay. He can tolerate her touch.

"What about your suitors?" He closes his eyes as she moves to the front of his hair so he's not awkwardly staring at her chest.

She snorts. "I don't have suitors."

"Yes, you do. Just because you rejected them all doesn't mean they don't exist."

"You mean Luke?" she scoffs.

Percy wrinkles his nose. "Hell no."

She laughs.

"I mean… others."

She tilts his face up with her fingers so he's forced to look at her, and she smiles at him. "Like who?"

Percy feels his face warm up, and he prays he's not blushing. "I don't know. I'm just saying people eye you too."

"Well," she releases his face, and he lets out a breath of relief, "the feeling is not mutual."

"Married to college life?"

Annabeth smirks. "You could say that."

That, at least, is a relief. If she's attached to her education, then she's not running around with mini-Lukes, and that, perhaps selfishly, gives Percy peace of mind.

"So I'm guessing you haven't bedded anyone recently?" she inquires, moving to the nape of his neck.

He exhales in exasperation. "I already told you. I haven't been like that since maybe freshman year. It was a phase. A bad one."

Annabeth cracks a grin. "Fine, I'll stop teasing you."

"Thank god."

"Are you Christian?"

"What?" He thinks he's heard her wrong.

"Christian," she says again. "I mean, I say 'thank god' all the time, and it doesn't mean anything, but I'm just making conversation," says Annabeth honestly.

"Oh," he breathes. "No, no I'm not. It's kind of hard to believe in higher power when your life has been a series of unfortunate events, one after the other."

Her hands freeze in the midst of work.

"Sorry," he mutters, realizing how bitter that sounded.

Annabeth meets his gaze in the mirror, and it's still just as strong, even when it's indirect through a reflective glass. "Don't be." She looks like she's hesitant, almost holding her breath.

Percy sighs. "Spit it out."

"What's with the letters?"

In all honesty, he'd expected her to ask earlier. She had lasted much longer than even Nico who had way more self-control than Thalia.

"They're from my birth-father."

She brushes the stray hairs off his shoulder. "Done," she whispers.

Percy inspects himself in the mirror. She did a good job; the sides are even, and his hair looks cleaner than it has in months. "Thanks."

"You don't have to explain if you don't want to."

"No, it's okay." And it is. He trusts her. "Poseidon, my father, left when I was just a baby, leaving my mom to take care of me all by herself. She never finished college to take care of her parents. We didn't have a lot of money." Percy tries to explain it quickly—he never likes to dwell on the details too long. It only causes bad memories to resurface. "I never really cared who he was. My childhood wasn't the standard, sure, but my mom was the greatest person to ever exist, and as long as I had her, I didn't need him."

" _Was_?" Annabeth prompts, her expression revealing nothing.

Percy blows air out of his cheeks. "She died when I was nine."

"Shit."

"Indeed," Percy agrees, solemn.

"How?"

"My abusive step-father drove them both off the side of the railing of a highway."

Annabeth's eyes go wide, her mouth dropping open in surprise. "What the fuck?"

Only Thalia and Nico know this, and her reaction seems pretty fair.

"I ask myself the same question every day," Percy says, his voice dry if only to cover up all the anguish. "So anyway, back to the letters."

She nods dazedly.

"After they threw me into the foster system—Poseidon didn't want me, obviously—and I finally escaped it when I was eighteen, _relatively_ unscathed," he doesn't touch on the abuse that happens in adoption center, deciding to spare her the gory details, "he started sending me those letters, one every month. There's some money because he's just a rich bastard who thinks he can make up nineteen years of abandonment with money, you know how those types of rich people are, and he asks me how I'm doing, and leaves his phone number at the bottom if I ever want to call him."

Annabeth gapes at him. "Do you?" she sputters.

"Call him?" Percy makes a face. "Of course not."

"Why not?"

Percy laughs hollowly. "The only reason I'd call him is to warn him he has seven days until a goddamn assassinator arrives."

Annabeth doesn't ask anymore questions that afternoon.

…

Her question haunts him for the rest of the week. _Why not?_ Why doesn't he just call him and go off? Why doesn't he just release this pent up energy? Why should _he_ carry this burden when Poseidon's the one who left?

It's not like Percy's trying to spare his feelings or anything.

He almost _does_ call him. He fishes out a letter late one night, and he dials the phone, but on the first ring, he hastily hangs up.

Percy realizes he's afraid. He's afraid to hear the voice of the man who's supposed to be just like him. He's afraid to know what could've once been, and he's afraid to discover if he's anything like his deadbeat father after all.

Gabe was a terrible guy, no doubt about it. Percy refers to him as a pig, not a human being, but in some ways, he might be better to Percy than Poseidon. Percy can hate Gabe. He can resent him for drowning his mother in his own death with him. He can know Gabe's a terrible person through and through, and he can brush Gabe off as a monster, a shell of a man who once was. He can find peace in knowing there's nothing that can be done about Gabe.

It's not the same with Poseidon.

Percy's greatest fear isn't that Poseidon's going to be awful—it's that he's going to be a normal, relatively good guy.

It's that he's going to be human.

And there's nothing scarier than the blurred lines between man and monster.

…

It hurts like a bitch to get your wisdom teeth removed, and he's loopy as fuck, and Percy can't think straight as Thalia drags him into her car.

"I'm taking you to Annabeth," Thalia mutters under her breath. "I can't deal with your idiocy, and I can't even tell if it's the drugs or you being a stupid bitch at this point." She laughs.

Percy giggles. "Annabeth," he coos, thinking of the pretty blonde. "Pretty."

"Yes, yes. Pretty." Thalia snickers.

She wrestles him to raise his arms so she can strap him in a seatbelt, and Percy just stares at her intensely as she drives.

"This is better than weed," Percy mumbles hazily, on the trip of his life.

There are tears running down Thalia's face.

"Thals? Thalia, why are you crying?"

She only laughs harder, muttering something about recording this and showing it to Nico.

"Stop crying, Thalia."

…

Percy wakes up groggily, and when he sees the light grey walls, he knows this isn't his room. His mouth feels like it's on fire.

"Oh, good. You're awake."

Curly hair seeps into his vision, and then Annabeth's hovering above him, her mouth curved up in amusement.

Percy groans, covering his face with his hands. Then he notices the bag of teeth on Annabeth's nightstand. "Why are there teeth on the table?" he deadpans, glancing up to the grinning blonde.

"Thalia said you thought the nurse was robbing you and demanded she return your teeth."

Percy's face heats up in embarrassment. "I didn't."

"You did. She has a video."

"Oh my god." Percy covers his face with his hands, blushing brightly as Annabeth laughs at his misery.

"You wouldn't leave until she bagged them up for you!" Annabeth teases him, and he wants to be mad at her, and Thalia too for recording him, but he feels himself smiling despite it all.

"That's so embarrassing."

"It's fucking hilarious," Annabeth corrects, her grin threatening to split her cheeks from sheer giddiness. "Do you want water? I'm sure my angelic ass could fetch you some. Or maybe I'll fly with my wings." She smirks, and Percy freezes.

"I didn't." He's horrified.

Annabeth holds up her phone with the video Thalia sent her.

"You look like an angelllllll," Percy slurs over the phone, twirling Annabeth's hair in his fingers. Thalia's crying she's laughing so hard, and Annabeth's close to it. "Where do you like to fly? Central Park?"

"Oh my _god,_ oh my god, oh my god." He can't stop saying it, burying himself lower and lower under the covers.

The phone camera's shaking, probably because Thalia couldn't even hold it still from how hard she was laughing.

"Please disregard everything stupid I could have possibly said when I was high off anesthesia," Percy mutters, and he wonders if he's still on drugs because Annabeth's laugh is the most musical thing he's ever heard, and he did _not_ just think that.

"Aw, but I thought it was cute." Annabeth smirks. "Very entertaining, and very adorable."

"I'm not adorable," Percy protests in indignation.

She cracks a smile. "But apparently you think I am."

He flushes again. "Fucking hell."

"Who would've thought you have a soft side?"

"I don't," he tries, but she's having none of it, her smile illuminating the room.

"Besides, why would you want to take your confession back?"

Percy freezes, all the color draining from his face. "What?"

"You're blue food sexual," Annabeth clarifies.

Relief overwhelms him. "Oh." He laughs awkwardly, thanking the fucking heavens he didn't out some undying love or other bullshit to her in his messed up state of mind. "That's not a surprise. That's old news."

"Yeah, maybe it is," Annabeth muses, and she stands up to get him a glass of water, leaving him to bury himself in his own embarrassment, watching the videos on Annabeth's phone in shame.

…

It's April when Piper throws another party. The weather is warmer, and it's starting to show. Nico's doing better these days, healing slowly but surely, and Thalia's back to cracking jokes in a bottle of tequila, and Annabeth's wearing _shorts_ (cue nosebleed), and Jason's found a new job, and Piper's discovered the wonders of bold eyeshadow (even though it makes her look like a raccoon sometimes, albeit a very pretty raccoon), and Will is interning at the local hospital, and Percy's just there, only ever there, not moving forward, but not being dragged backward.

…

He hears her before he sees her, and when he does, his stomach twists all uncomfortably. Annabeth's face is reddened with anger, and she's whisper-yelling at Luke in the corner of Piper's kitchen.

He feels like he's intruding on something, and he backs away, abandoning all thoughts of Piper's food when he sees her, but Annabeth spots him out of the corner of her eye and—and she's desperate.

It's only then that Percy truly soaks in the scene before him. She's caged in between Luke's arms, and they're both definitely drunk, and Luke is angry, and she's equal parts angry and _afraid_ , like he's said something or done something, and Percy's mind goes blank, hazy as he sees red. Because she broke up with him _months_ ago, because Annabeth doesn't deserve this shit, because Luke is too close, way too close, and Percy's going to _murder_ him, really, and she's being trapped like a sheep in a pen, and this isn't okay—

"Annabeth," Percy calls out before he can stop himself.

Her eyes are wide, her breathing short and small, little puffs of fear. Every breath stabs him in the gut like a knife.

Luke glares at him, finally seeing him. "Why are you always around here?" he slurs, squinting at Percy.

"It's the kitchen," Percy grits out. "It's public domain."

"Percy," Annabeth breathes, and she looks like she's about to cry any second now—from relief or terror, he doesn't know, and Percy also doesn't know what Luke's done to her, but he feels like he's dying because she's dying.

"This is private business, Jackson," Luke spits. He's a sloppy drunk; Percy's not impressed.

"She's not your property," he says without missing a beat. "Public, or private, or otherwise."

Luke scoffs. "I never said she was—"

"And," Percy interrupts, balling up his fists in anger. He exhales slowly, trying to calm himself. "She clearly doesn't want you anymore. You crushed her with your jealousy and control-freak tendencies, and she's had enough, and she told you herself. So just step away. Let her be."

Luke glowers at him. "You don't know anything about our affairs."

"No," Percy agrees, and he's surprised by how calm and steady his own voice is, "but I also know when someone's being harrassed, and it's disgusting. Let her be."

Luke staggers off Annabeth, and she slumps forward in relief. She's strong, mentally, Percy knows. But she'll never be able to fight off a tall guy like Luke; it's just biology, and Percy fucking hates it. He won't fight her battles for her—not unless she asks him to—but he's not going to stand around and watch it happen either. He'll just level the playing field, ensure it's fair ground, and then let her do as she pleases.

"You're one to talk, Jackson," Luke spits. "You're not a saint either." He sneers.

Percy's lips curl back in distaste. "I never claimed moral ground." He side steps between him and Annabeth, shielding her out of habit.

"You think you're so great, but you're just a dirty liar, Jackson." Luke's eyes are rimmed-red. He's pissed. Percy's okay with that actually. He pisses off people all the time; he's rather an expert at it.

Percy doesn't warrant his childlike taunts with a response.

"You're not going to save her," says Luke. "You think she'll want you just because she doesn't want me?"

Percy coolly sips from his cup. Annabeth's trembling with rage behind him, damn near about to burst. "I don't care who she wants," Percy says, and it physically pains him to say it. "It's none of my business. All I know is you're being a dickhead, and I don't tolerate that bullshit." He feels the pressure building in his chest. "But this wouldn't be the first time you've been an asshole, right? Someone must've given you that scar for running off your mouth." Percy smiles with his teeth, a smug, shit-eating grin. Luke's jaw ticks in irritation; Percy _knows_ he hates that scar on his face, and it's a low blow, but—he can't help himself. "I'd love to thank them personally, but they're probably traumatized after seeing you."

"Jackson," Luke warns.

Annabeth reaches out to stop Percy, but he lets his mouth run away with him too. He's never been particularly good at showing respect, not to assholes, not after Gabe.

Percy smirks, warming up to his string of insults, goading Luke on. "Tell me, what does rejection taste like? Is it sour? Bitter? Salty? _Umami?_ "

"Percy," Annabeth snaps, and Luke swings.

Under normal circumstances, Percy would duck—his reflexes are lightning quick, faster than Luke for sure. Whereas Luke is bulky, Percy's muscles are lean and smooth. However, Percy's very much aware of Annabeth behind him, and he knows if he ducks, Annabeth will eat it.

He shoves Annabeth out of the way, and she stumbles, knocking painfully into the counter. Still, a minor bruise is better than having her nose broken by Luke. Percy slides under his punch easily, and Luke glares at him, his left eye twitching with fury. He goes to sack Percy again, but Percy dances out of his space, turning and splashing his remaining vodka onto Luke's face.

Luke's screaming profanities, yelling about murdering Percy, and Annabeth's yelling at them to both stop, stop it both of you, and Percy's heart is thumping with adrenaline. He's not the kind of guy to start physical fights—he just finishes them. They're making a ruckus, and when Thalia bursts into the kitchen two minutes later Percy's hardly surprised. Even over the music, they're loud.

"Percy?" she sputters in surprise.

"Thalia!" Percy greets, and Luke throws another punch. Percy dodges. Repeat. "How nice of you to join us."

"Luke, stop, stop!" Annabeth begs, trying to pry him off, but he easily shoves her away, and she flinches at his intimidation, and Percy snaps. It gives him red flag warnings, it's eerily similar to the way Sally flinched from Gabe so many times, and Percy can't even be funny anymore.

He throws a punch, square and powerful, using his hips and his legs to put all his power into it, and his fist cleanly collides with Luke's jaw. There's a sickening crack in the room as Luke falls.

"You fucking son of a bitch!" Luke screams.

"Percy!" Annabeth's crying. He feels slightly dizzy from the sheer impact, and his knuckles throb, but it's a small price to pay to see Luke sprawled on the ground, his mouth bleeding. Percy's sure he broke his jaw, and he doesn't give a fuck. He deserves far worse than that.

"Don't you fucking touch her!" Percy says as Luke tries to stagger to his feet. He swings drunkenly, and Percy accidentally slips up, and Luke's hand cracks against his stomach. Percy's doubles over, wanting to throw up all the alcohol at the impact.

"You fucking bastard!" Thalia will never let Percy get hurt, and she punches. Thalia's tiny, but she's not one to be underestimated. With one pop of her arm, she breaks Luke's nose, and he's screaming about what a bitch she is, and he goes to hit her—the fucking prick, he's going to hit a girl—and Percy _tackles_ him.

"Pick on someone your own size, you coward, you _fucking_ coward," Percy spits as he punches blindly, his fists beating against Luke's face and chest. He climbs on top of him, gasping for air, still winded from Luke's sucker punch, and he hits Luke until his fists are bloody and splitting open.

Annabeth's sobbing, hysterical; Thalia's furious, and her bicep is bruised where Luke roughly handled her; Percy feels the air coming back into his pipes; and Luke is a bloody, cussing mess on the kitchen floor.

Percy feels someone pull him off—he thinks it's Jason—and Nico is checking if Annabeth and Thalia are okay, and Piper's yelling at him and Luke, but mostly Luke to get the fuck out of her house because _you punched my friend, you fucki_ —but he's not really listening, and Piper's half-sister's boyfriend Charles Beckendorf—a nice guy, Percy's always thought—is prying Luke away from Percy, and Luke's still screaming profanities, and Jason cusses at Percy, demanding that he stops fighting.

Percy lets Jason rein him and his temper in, backing into his friend, and Jason's face is hard, his expression unreadable, but his electric eyes are aflame with anger.

"What the fuck, Percy?" Jason demands.

"Luke punched first!" Thalia protests, and Nico has to hold her arm to convince her to stop fighting. Will is checking out Luke's face, trying to stem the bleeding, and maybe it's the fact that it's one too many drinks, but Percy feels dizzier and dizzier by the moment. He stumbles into the comfortable weight of Jason behind him.

The last thing he sees before he passes out are the tears streaming down Annabeth's face as she incoherently tries to explain what happened to Piper and Nico.

…

When Percy comes to, a skinny, dark-haired boy is sitting on a chair near him. Nico.

It's strange to wake up in Nico's bed with the Italian boy peering at him when the roles have been reversed so many times, Percy waiting impatiently for Nico to recover from yet another blackout.

"You'd better pass back out before everyone starts ripping your face off."

Percy glances to his left to look at Nico, really look at him. Nico is expressionless, as he usually is, and he eyes Percy curiously, tiredly. It makes Percy feel a little guilty, really.

"Yeah?" Percy croaks, slowly sitting up. His head is throbbing, and his stomach feels like it's on fire. He peeks down, and there's a disgusting, purpling bruise on his skin. He looks away.

Nico stares at him for a moment, and Percy's not sure what's going through his mind, but he speaks before Percy can even ask. "You said you'd stop getting into fights."

The stab of guilt comes back. Nico and Thalia are his best friends, his family. He hates letting them down, and he thinks Nico might be a little disappointed, but it's hard to tell when he holds himself so impassively.

"I did," Percy says, his voice hoarse. He hadn't gotten in a fight since junior year of high school. And now.

"So what happened?" Nico waits patiently. Out of all his friends, even Annabeth, Percy thinks Nico might be the calmest one. He just seems to understand the world on another level, a spiritual level. It's like Nico has this inner peace despite all the shit he's been through. It's like all his chakras are aligned or whatever crap Piper's always going off about. He's like the wild old sage in the body of an eighteen-year-old kid.

"He swung first," Percy whispers.

"I know," Nico says gently. "But I also know you, and I know you probably goaded him on."

Percy's guilty face is enough to speak for him.

"As I thought." Nico sighs to himself, sitting back in his chair.

"How'd I get here?" He reaches for the water one of his friends have so kindly left on the bedside table. Based off of the way there's no water dripping down the sides of the glass, he can only guess it's Nico. Nobody else is as careful as he is.

"Jason and Beckendorf had to carry you to Thalia's car, and I drove you home." Nico pauses, smiling slightly, but it falls just as quickly as it comes. "You're heavy as shit, for your information."

Percy winces, leaning back into the pillows. "Thanks."

Nico doesn't say anything.

"Where's Thals?" Percy whispers.

"I took her back to her house."

"She didn't want to crash here?"

"She's really fucking mad at you."

"She broke Luke's nose," Percy points out.

Nico shoots him a dry look. "Yeah, well, she wasn't going to let him try and pick on you, but that doesn't mean she's not pissed at you for getting in a fight."

"I know." Percy breathes out shakily. "And everyone else?"

"Annabeth stayed the night at Piper's. Piper's mad at you too, I think."

Percy's shoulders slumped forward. "I know. Everyone probably is."

"Bingo," Nico mumbles sarcastically. "Jason stayed at his sister's, too exhausted to make the trip all the way back to his house. Beckendorf took Silena home, and they went back to his place. Piper kicked everyone out of the party, so they're just all wherever they want to be. Will's at the hospital for his internship, but he stayed the night in my living room, and he iced you up, so you'd better thank him," Nico warns. Percy bobs his head in silent agreement. "And I think Silena offered to take Luke in for the night after they hauled him to the hospital—between you and Thalia, he broke four bones—but I don't really know what happened with him. He might be staying with one of his brothers too."

They linger in the silence.

"I'm sorry," Percy whispers to no one in particular, his eyes closed.

Nico snorts. "You're not sorry you hit him."

"No," Percy slowly agrees. "But I'm sorry I let you down." It feels heavy even to say, and when he peeks his eyes open, blinking at Nico, Nico only glances at him sympathetically.

"It's okay, Perce," Nico whispers. He's forgiving, always, and Percy hates the way he is. He hates that he can't be as good as Nico, as lenient, as just. Nico always holds people accountable, but he's one of the kindest souls when he doesn't have to pin someone and hold them responsible for their actions. Percy wants to be like him. He wants to be as good as him, and he's _trying_ —it's just not working. It's not enough.

"So what'd he do to her?" asks Percy.

Nico doesn't even have to ask for clarification—they practically exist on the same brainwave at this point. "Luke didn't touch her."

Percy breathes out a sigh of relief.

"He was just hassling her, trying to coerce her into getting back together, harassing her about some other girl he fucked. He was really drunk."

"That's still bad," Percy mutters.

"Yeah, but he didn't touch her."

"He was going to."

"You don't know that."

Percy glowers at him. "So what, you wanted me to sit around and wait for him to?"

Nico shakes his head, slowly, sadly. "No, Percy," is all he says, and he stands. "What were you thinking?"

"I just couldn't watch him hurt her," Percy breathes. "And I know, god I _know_ it's not my place to interfere, but when push comes to shove, he could really, really hurt her."

"I know."

"And I can't let that happen. I can't let him treat her like dirt because she's _not_ dirt—she's one of the best people in my life, and she doesn't deserve his disrespect."

"I know."

"And I know Annabeth's not going to come running to me, and I'm not her hero—I'm not even my _own_ hero—but." He shrugs helplessly, his headache throbbing through him. "But even if she hates me for hitting him, even if she hates me forever, I won't regret it. It had to be done. Someone had to put him in his place before it went too far, and I'm sorry she'll be angry, I'm sorry because she'll be blinded by her old affection for him, but even if it wasn't Annabeth, if it was any other person, I would have done the same. I'm not Mother Theresa, and I'm not a superhero, and I'm not looking out for the good people out of the kindness of my heart all the time or whatever other bullshit, but it's just who I am. I can't let it happen. I never will."

Percy finally takes a breath, looking to Nico for support, but his expression is only morose, empathetic.

"And there's your answer," Nico whispers, towering over him. He reaches for the door handle. "I'm going to call Will. Shout if you n—"

"Answer?" Percy interrupts. He never asked a question.

Nico gazes at him long and hard, and he understands all at once. Nico told him how everyone else felt about him, told him Piper's mad at him, and Thalia's pissed, and Jason's frustrated, and he didn't say how Annabeth felt. He didn't tell him if she was mad at him too, or relieved, or frustrated, or upset, or frightened.

Nico walks out the door, shutting it softly behind him before Percy can say any more, and then he's just as alone as he'd been so many years ago.

…

Percy only sees her again two weeks later—his bruise is only a faint, sickly green now—when he's leaving one of his classes. She's in the quad closest to that hall, and she's sitting alone at a picnic table, reading something. He hasn't bothered to try and call her at all, feeling it's hopeless, but seeing her here makes his fear spike times twenty, and it also makes him a little reckless. The occasional breeze stirs her curls, and he remembers a time before he probably scared the shit out of her by beating her ex bloody.

He regrets frightening her, but he doesn't regret what he did, just as he told Nico. He hopes Luke's still feeling it. He relishes every one of the three bones he crunched, and the fourth—the nose—that Thalia broke.

He must stare for too long, though, lost in thought because Annabeth's head snaps up, scanning the people around them before landing on him. Her eyes widen automatically, and he can't quite read them, so he slowly approaches her—slowly, like one would a frightened animal. He doesn't want to scare her off.

"Percy," Annabeth says, and his name is rough in her mouth, not like how she usually caresses it with her tongue, saying it with a smile, saying it sweetly. He doesn't wince; he knows he deserves much worse than that. He's not expecting any gratitude, only sheer hatred, maybe terror. He's appalled by the mere notion. He would never dream of scaring her, but he also knows he probably already has.

"Annabeth." It's barely a whisper on his tongue.

"Are you feeling better?" Annabeth manages, but she holds her textbook close to her chest, trying to shield herself from him, protect herself. It's a depressing thought.

"Yes," he says, and it's the truth. Physically, at least.

"Luke had to go to the hospital because of you." Straight to the point, like always.

He breathes out shakily to relieve some of the tension building in him. "I know."

"Four broken bones. Three from you. A jaw, a finger, and a rib."

"I know." He feels like Nico, repeating the same things, but what else can he say? Sorry? He's not. And he doesn't give a fuck what Luke says: Percy Jackson's many things, but he's not a liar. Secretive, guarded, maybe, but never a liar.

"Is that all you know to say?" Annabeth bites out, her eyes flashing darkly.

Percy swallows thickly. "What do you want me to say? You want me to apologize?"

She shakes her head, unspeakably angry.

"I'm sorry I scared you." That's the truth, at least. "I'm sorry I haven't called. I'm sorry I haven't been a good friend." It's all coming up like word vomit. But he's not sorry that he loves her, and he shuts his mouth before he can say anything else.

"You didn't scare me," says Annabeth.

He gives her a long look and takes a step toward her. She recoils almost immediately, hastily backing up, and then he looks at her pointedly.

"It was just a… different side of you," Annabeth justifies, caving.

"Regardless," Percy mutters. "I'm sorry. I would never hurt you. I would've thought you'd know that, but I get it if you don't really trust my word right now."

"I don't know who you are, Percy," Annabeth hisses, and her lips flatten into a thin, tight line. "I don't give a fuck that you punched him back, but what you said to him first? That was cruel, Perseus."

He grimaces at his given Christian name. It feels odd, alien-like on her tongue.

"And if you punched him to protect yourself, then I'd understand. If you hit him to keep him from hitting me, I wouldn't care."

He waits for the blow to land.

"But you hit him long after what was necessary. You beat a man who had already lost, like you were… sadistic, heartless, callous."

Every word twists the knife one hundred times worse than any one of Luke's punches could have. She must think he's bulletproof, but she's always known how to hurt him where it's worst.

"I know," he admits, and he does. He knows he was merciless, and he knows he's grown up believing mercy doesn't exist, but he also knows he should've stopped when Luke lost. He should've stopped when Annabeth was cowering in horror—horror of _him._ Not of Luke. Not of the situation. Of _him._

"And the worst part is that you're not even sorry for turning into some version of a monster which makes me think it's a larger part of you than you let on."

She's never been closer to home than she is now. Percy stiffens, wrapping into himself for comfort like he did when he was a kid, folding his arms across his chest. His backpack feels heavier than normal, like it's weighing him down. Bricks for a sinner.

"I can't be," Percy agrees, and she scans him with her eyes, searching for something she won't find. He bares himself in front of her now, his expression vulnerable, guilty, truthful. She can search as long as she wants, but she won't find the Percy she wants to see. Every memory will be tinted: them making cake, them hanging out at the coffee shop, them lounging around his apartment, and then hers too. It's tinted blue like he's become through the years, and then black too.

"Who _are_ you?" she confides, her grey eyes wide. He sees the disappointment across her face, clear as day, and he knows Luke lost the fight, but he lost his chance, whatever measly piece of it he'd had in the first place, anyway.

"I don't know," he whispers, his voice low. He's very aware of the way his voice quavers at 'know,' choking up.

Annabeth tears her eyes away, packing up her things. Her actions are slow, deliberate, hesitant like she's waiting for him to stop her. He can't find it within himself to do so. What would he even say? Don't go? How pathetic is that? She has every reason to go. Even by his own admittance, he doesn't know who he is anymore. He doesn't remember his Mom like he wants to, and he never knew his dad, and he doesn't know who he's the product of. He doesn't know what parts are his trauma speaking, and he doesn't know what parts he's built himself, what parts truly are sadistic and mean. How does he love again? How does he tell himself he's alright when he doesn't know what's going on with him? How can he expect her to forgive him when he doesn't think he's ever forgiven himself, not since he was a little boy and he watched Gabe raise a hand to Sally, and he was powerless to do or say anything. But was he powerless? Could he have done something? Was he just stuck in shades of cowardice?

"Tell me to stay, and I won't go," Annabeth whispers so softly he barely hears her.

He looks at her, taking in her features, the scent of her lemon shampoo, her large, intelligent eyes, her non-uniform curls, alight with the sun, her smooth, tan skin—a figure he's made himself crazy dreaming about, night after night—and a brain he wants to joust with any time, a brain that slips into worlds he'll never be able to follow to. He soaks in her lips, full and pink and beautiful, a mouth he's dreamt of kissing too, lips that whisper insults harsher than he's ever heard, and sweet promises that give him hope, and jokes only she understands, and everything in between.

Annabeth peers up at him through her bronze eyelashes, waiting patiently.

And he hates himself because he's always known what he would say if she asked what she's asking right now. He's always known what he'd do if she asked him to make her stay, and he knows what he's going to do before he even thinks too hard about it. It'll always boil down to this: she's an archangel, and he's the devil reincarnated, and he'd love to love her, but he also knows he loves her too much to bring her down, he loves her more than enough to know he's not what's best for her, and he comes with a boat-load of baggage, and he's the poison in her garden of flowers, and he loves her enough to let her go. And he doesn't know if it's a mistake, but he also knows she's too young to feel his pain like he does, and he knows she's too lovely to be infected by his bitterness and hatred and cynicism.

Because there is no antidote in sight, not yet. There is no cure to Percy's deep-rooted self-loathing; there is no remedy to toxic love, one-sided affection, to a traumatic past; there is no medicine for all he's put himself through, and all he's destined to put her through if she climbs aboard this ship with him. And he won't let her drown. This is a one-man corruption, and he will let it consume him whole before it reaches its inhumane finger out to take her down too.

"Percy," Annabeth interrupts his inner conflict, his name breathless from her lungs. "Do you want to come to my apartment? Do you want to play Life?"

He almost wants to laugh. Or cry. Or both. Life has always been their solution. Angry? Play Life. Upset? Play Life. Ecstatic and high on the glory of life? Play Life.

But a board game is nothing like the real world, and it's high time Percy learns he's not a blue car zooming through a mixture of extreme and regular routes, his pink daughters falling out of the seats.

Annabeth must see the tears welling in his eyes because her eyes get glassy too. "Percy." She's nearly pleading. "I'm not mad at you, I swear. I was surprised, but we can talk through this. We always can." She doesn't want to let him go. He's always wanted to hold onto her so tight, so how is it that now, when she's ready to take him in, he's never wanted to run further?

"I'll see you around," he says because it's too hard to say 'goodbye' and know you're tearing your heart out of your chest.

Annabeth blinks back tears, and she turns and walks away, shouldering her bag awkwardly. It looks heavy. Percy wants to help her. But he needs to help himself first. He needs to sort his shit out. His hands stay glued to his sides as he watches her go. He doesn't chase after her—he knows he should; he doesn't call out her name—he wants to scream it to world until he can never forget it, until she never forgets his voice; he doesn't tell her he loves her—he doesn't think he deserves to love her, not like this. She deserves someone whole, and he's never been more filled with pills and alcohol and emptiness than he is now. The bruise throbs as she walks away, and he wants to look away—he knows the image of her back receding from his line of vision will slowly kill him forever, haunting him—but he can't.

Percy stands there for an awfully long time, even when she's long out of sight, and then he sits at the picnic table, resting his head in his arms, and he just sits, thinking, wondering if he's making the worst mistake of his life, or if he's just doing the inevitable, if letting her go was all he could've ever done all along.

The sun is warm on his back, and Percy listens to the birds chirp. Spring is coming.

…

_To Poseidon,_

_A father in none but name. I don't want to know why you left, not anymore. I used to wonder about it, but I think part of growing up is knowing that I don't need all the answers anymore. Knowing won't change the past, and I'm over it._

_I want to thank you. You are not the reason I am who I am today—I credit that all to Mom—but you are part of the reason I am who I am. I want to thank you for making me independent, for teaching me sometimes the only person you can trust is yourself. I want to thank you for making me cautious with whom I befriend or give my heart to, however small. It's both a curse and a blessing. I want to thank you for showing me exactly who I don't want to be when I grow up. If I ever have kids, I know I'll be there for every single piece of their growing up. I'll be their biggest cheerleader. I want to thank you for teaching me that if someone doesn't want to be part of my life, I don't need them. It tooks me five birthdays of blowing out candles to learn that if you had wanted to be there, you would've, and it's taught me to let go. I want to thank you for exposing me to hardship when I was little. When you left Mom with no choice but to turn to an abusive drunk, I learned pain, and now when rare happiness overtakes me, I can never take it for granted. I want to thank you for choosing Mom. She's my greatest inspiration, and she taught me all I know that is good and pure. She still made me blue birthday cakes, and she brushed my hair, and she took me to Montauk Beach in the summers, even if she had to save up all her money for us to rent that broken-down cabin. I don't know how you ever let her go, but I am thankful for her, thankful you chose her and not anyone else._

_And finally, I want to thank you for being my greatest test of forgiveness. Growing up like I did makes it easy for me to be bitter and cold and turn to a bottle of Jack when it gets to be too much, but I think I'm learning anew, and I want to thank you for letting me understand that I can't control everyone around me, no matter how much I might want to. I can't decide who leaves, and who stays, and who supports me, and who fails._

_I can only move forward and know that what other people do isn't my fault. I can only know that as hard as it was to forgive you, I do, I really do. I forgive you for being the worst. I forgive you for not being there. I forgive you for all you put Mom through. I forgive you not because of your money or your piss-poor attempts to rekindle our relationship long after it was too late, but because I'm tired of being angry with you._

_It takes up energy I want to put into people I love. It takes up time I don't want to spend on you. And so I forgive you._

_I hope you'll forgive me too—I know I wasn't a stellar son either—but at the end of the day, it doesn't matter to me if you do or you don't. I acknowledge that you're no longer a part of my life, and I'm not part of yours, and I forgive you for myself, and that's all that matters._

_Percy_


End file.
